I got back to the Vance house at half past five.

The basement storage room smelled of damp concrete and old cardboard and was lit by a single bare bulb hanging over the workbench.

Julian stood by the metal shelving, shifting heavy vinyl bags of winter golf clubs out of the way.

I carried a plastic tub of seasonal table linens toward the racks in the corner, keeping my eyes on the floor.

“Eleanor wants the holiday runners washed by Friday,” Julian said.