Are you trying to kill us on our first day?”

It was barely seven-thirty. I unbuttoned my trench coat, draped it over a chair, and met her glare calmly. “I was working. There are fresh groceries in the crisper and leftovers in the containers.

The stove works fine.”

Her eyes bulged; she planted her hands on her hips. “Listen to Miss High-and-Mighty. The second my son’s back is turned, the mask slips. I came here to be pampered, not to cook.

Catering to us is your only duty as the wife.”

I didn’t blink. As of this morning, I knew her son was a philandering thief, and whatever respect I’d held for this family was gone.