Biscuit lifted his head, gave a short muffled grunt, and rested his wet nose back against my ankle.

I stayed on that porch swing until the parish clock three streets away struck eight long, echoing notes through the dark neighborhood.

If Greg Whitman thought seven hundred miles of ocean and a property transfer would stop me from uncovering the truth behind his leaving, he had forgotten who had managed this household for twenty-two years.

I stood up, led Biscuit inside through the kitchen door, and carried the blue silk dress up the stairs to my bedroom.

I unlatched the rolling suitcase on the bed, folded the blue dress carefully into four neat quarters, and tucked it beneath the inside mesh pocket under the dim closet light.