“The carriage house is historic,” Jonathan said, not looking up from his phone.

“The insulation is poor.” The heating is gas, I said.

This is an industrial electrical draw, active since last October, averaging nine thousand kilowatt-hours a month.

It reads like a commercial operation run out of a private residence, which on a balance sheet is a liability.

He rotated the signet ring slowly.

“You are looking at details that do not concern you, Clara.”

His hand closed over my forearm, his fingers finding the exact spot where the skin was still tender, and he did not let go when my shoulders tensed.