I walked back to the house, wiped my wet shoes on the garage mat, and carried my laundry basket down the basement stairs.

When I reached the concrete floor at a quarter past two, my load of wash was no longer in the machine.

Sloan had dumped my wet towels and undershirts onto the dusty gray floor beside the drain.

She stood by the dry-cleaning rack, holding three silk blouses on wire hangers.

“The guest room arrangement comes with limited use of shared space,” Sloan said, her back still turned to me.

“My delicates need the washer now.”