I reached into my pocket, took out the typed dismissal notice, and smoothed the white paper against my knee.

I folded the dismissal letter into four neat squares and pushed it deep into my apron pocket.

At seven o’clock the next morning, cold fog hung thick over the black iron front gate of Bellevue Crest.

I walked down the gravel drive, keeping low behind the rhododendron bushes so no one watching from the second-floor master suite could spot my apron in the gray light.

The morning air smelled of damp spruce needles and old pine wax from the porch pillars.