Franz parked the car near the entrance. For a moment neither of them moved.
The warmth of the heater faded slowly as the engine stopped. The evening they had just shared still lingered between them—the quiet dinner, the walk through the cold streets of Montclair, the warmth of their hands hidden inside his coat pocket.
Franz's hand was still on the gear shift. Arianne's was in her lap, close enough that he could have reached for her again.
He didn't.
But he didn't move his hand away either.
Arianne finally unfastened her seatbelt.
The sound seemed unusually loud in the stillness.
Franz glanced at her before opening the door.
Cold winter air slipped into the car immediately.
They stepped outside together.
Inside the house the lights had been dimmed. Only the entrance hall lamp remained on, casting a warm circle of light across the polished floor. The rest of the residence lay in quiet shadow, the large windows reflecting the darkness of the garden outside.
