Jacqueline who color-coded my spice rack.

Jacqueline who apologized to a dinner plate.

Jacqueline who spent every Sunday morning at Grace Church and who, when I had a migraine so bad I could barely see, had appeared silently at my elbow with a mug of hot chamomile tea and a cool cloth and had asked for nothing in return.

That woman.

That specific, gentle, churchgoing, soap-apologizing woman did not, could not, would never bring anything dangerous into my home.

The idea was so absurd it was almost funny, or it would have been funny if my hands had not been shaking.