The engine cut off two blocks before the estate. Michael Harrington didn’t want the rumble of his car announcing his return. He had rehearsed this moment all week, carefully, obsessively — like a surgeon preparing to cut something rotten out.
He straightened his navy tie, fingers trembling slightly. Three days, he muttered to his reflection in the rearview mirror. His eyes were rimmed red from sleepless nights. He had told everyone he’d be out of the country at a medical conference. The house would be unsupervised. If Rebecca showed her true colors, today he would see it.
A month earlier, he had hired her through a small agency after every certified nurse had quit. No one wanted to tolerate his temper — or the heavy sorrow that seemed embedded in the walls of that mansion.
Rebecca Lane had stood out immediately. Too bright. Too optimistic. Too alive for a house that felt like a mausoleum.
The doubt hadn’t started with him. It came from the neighbor, Mrs. Eleanor Pike, who lived permanently behind lace curtains.