The Whitaker house was beautiful in the way money always was. Clean lines, ocean views, manicured hedges. Inside, it felt abandoned. The guard opened the gate and murmured, “Good luck.”
Jonathan met her with dark circles under his eyes. “The job is cleaning only,” he said quickly. “My daughters are grieving. I cannot promise calm.”
A crash echoed overhead, followed by laughter sharp enough to cut.
Nora nodded. “I am not afraid of grief.”
Six girls stood watching from the stairs. Hazel, twelve, her posture rigid. Brooke, ten, pulling at her sleeves. Ivy, nine, eyes darting. June, eight, pale and quiet. The twins Cora and Mae, six, smiling with too much intention. And Lena, three, clutching a torn stuffed rabbit.
“I am Nora,” she said evenly. “I am here to clean.”
Hazel stepped forward. “You are number thirty eight.”
Nora smiled without flinching. “Then I will start with the kitchen.”
She noticed the photographs on the refrigerator. Maribel cooking. Maribel asleep in a hospital bed holding Lena. Grief was not hidden here. It lived openly.