Mabel had been a housekeeper at the Palm Springs estate for years, one of the few people there who had ever been kind to me — a quick smile in a hallway, an extra roll slipped to the girls when Agatha wasn’t looking.

She looked frightened now, glancing over her shoulder as I let her in.

“I can’t stay,” she whispered. “If she knew I was here—” She pressed the bread into my hands.

It was heavier than bread should be. “Inside. The loaf. Don’t open it till I’ve gone.”

Tucked into the center of the loaf, wrapped in a twist of plastic, was a small flash drive.

“The old house has cameras,” Mabel said.