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Thomas Webb’s kitchen gleamed the gleam of a man with too much time on his hands. People always talked about alphabetized spice racks, and Thomas Webb had never met anyone who had one.

Until now, that was, because he had one, and he was oddly proud of it. Sometimes, he felt like an Italian grandma in the wrong body, because since retirement, he’d realized he was a dab hand in the kitchen. Pasta and pizza were his specialties, but tonight he’d gone classic.

Thomas took out the southern fried spice, added it to the chicken and slid it into the oven.

Forty minutes and his elite roast dinner would be ready for consumption.

It had to be good, because he had guests tonight, and he never disappointed guests.

Sarah always raved about his roast dinners, though Thomas suspected she’d praise a burnt grilled cheese if he made it.

That was Sarah – loyal to a fault when it came to family.

He reached for his glass of Pinot Grigio and allowed himself a small sip.

The first glass was always ceremonial rather than recreational; a toast to the transition from day to evening.

The second was for conversation, and the third was for loosening the posture that four decades of cop work had baked into his spine.

Sarah would catch up quickly enough; his daughter had inherited his appreciation for precise quantities of alcohol at precisely the right moments.

6:55 PM according to the clock. Sarah was due at 7, but she ran on what she called ‘Webb Standard Time.’ That woman had inherited her dad’s punctuality but not his caution – a fact that kept him awake some nights.

Still, he had to hand it to her. Next to his bookshelf in the living room, Thomas had framed the covers of all of Sarah’s books.

Five of them. That was more than most authors published in a lifetime, and she was only in her forties.

His chest swelled with pride every time he looked at them.

Even more so because she’d built that career without having to wade through the filth he’d spent decades traversing.

The bloodstains, the screaming families, the politics, the nightmares.

She told the stories without living them first. Smart girl. Always had been.

He’d read all her books, of course. Saw the care she took, the respect she gave the victims, the way she avoided the cheap thrills and easy answers.

In fact, a part of Thomas Webb envied his daughter, but it was a healthy envy.

The kind that pushed him to better himself.

The Webb gene had always been more brawn than brains, but Sarah had proven that maybe they could excel in academia, or its literary equivalent, if they just put their minds to it.

And when Sarah came round tonight, he was going to tell her his big news.

He was going to drop it into conversation, casually, maybe over the second glass of wine.

She’d be proud of him, hopefully. He pictured her reaction – the raised eyebrow, the slow smile spreading across her face, the inevitable barrage of questions.

Yeah. She’d be happy for him. Maybe even impressed.

It felt good, having a secret project, a new direction after years adrift in the calm but sometimes stagnant waters of retirement.

She’d been distant lately, wrapped up in research for her next book.

But that was natural, because she had her own life now, her own career.

She’d fled the nest 20 years ago, but Thomas had still never gotten used to it.

Hell, he supposed Sarah still came around for dinner more often than most daughters would.

Thomas wandered into the living room while the chicken roasted to perfection. He’d tidied up earlier, dusted Sarah’s book frames, rearranged the throw pillows on the couch. The place was hardly Better Homes and Gardens material, but it was homey enough.

He checked his phone. 7:02 PM. Standard Webb Time was in full effect.

Thomas was halfway back to the kitchen to check on the potatoes – if only to busy hands and keep them off the wine – when he heard the distinct sound of the front door opening.

Sarah didn’t bother knocking. She hadn’t since she was a little girl.

‘Only two minutes late. Right on time.’

He heard footsteps in the hallway. Slower but heavier. Not Sarah’s usual quick stride. Thomas frowned and straightened, about to turn when the footsteps stopped.

‘Sorry about the time,’ a voice said. ‘Got held up.’

Thomas froze. Not Sarah’s voice. But familiar all the same. He turned slowly.

The figure stood in the threshold between living room and hallway, silhouetted against the light from the entryway. Thomas’s brain processed the information in disjointed fragments; familiar height, familiar stance, familiar voice – but the pieces wouldn’t assemble into a coherent whole.

His mind stuttered over the incongruity: this person should not be in his house, not now, not like this.

Then the figure lunged with a speed Thomas couldn’t match. Cop instincts, dormant but never extinct, screamed at him to move, to counter, to react. But his body betrayed him with the sluggishness of seventy years of accumulated living.

Thomas felt a foreign object enter his body via the stomach. Not for the first time in his life, but the sudden lack of breath and blurry vision said it was probably the last.

Thomas tried to speak again, but his mouth filled with copper and salt. He tried to raise his head, to glimpse the face one more time, to confirm what he already knew. But his neck refused to obey. All strength had abandoned him, fleeing along with his lifeblood into the carpet.

His final thoughts weren’t of his killer. Instead, he thought of Sarah, who would find him here, who would blame herself for being late. Who would carry that guilt like she carried everything else. Too deeply.

‘It’s not personal,’ the voice said. ‘It’s just what needs to happen next.’

Through the creeping darkness, Thomas watched his attacker set down a canvas duffel bag. The zipper rasped open, and out fell a pile of what Thomas recognized as industrial nails.

Twelve inches long. As thick as a baseball bat.

And even as death encroached, Thomas Webb knew exactly where those nails would end up.

He just hoped he was dead before he felt it.