Arthur was still glued to his phone, rattling off directions while getting ready to head out front.

“Yeah, that’s right. Take the elevator and stop at the eighth floor,” he said, shutting the fridge door with one hand. He dropped a bowl of ice cubes on the pantry counter without a second thought, then started toward the front door.

Just as his hand wrapped around the doorknob, that same tug yanked at him again—this time on the sleeve of his shirt.

Arthur’s focus slipped from ...