Juliet stood near the tall arched windows with her arms wrapped around herself, looking out at the rain on the glass and the gray estate beyond it.

She had traded the blue uniform for a dark green sweater and jeans, and somehow out of the uniform she looked even smaller against the towering shelves and heavy furniture, a slight young woman swallowed by the scale of a dead man’s power.

She looked wrong in that room, and it took me a moment to understand why: she was the only living thing in it that my father had not shaped.

Everything else — the furniture, the shelves, the son leaning against the desk with his arms crossed — bore his design.