“Why are you keeping track of exactly when I come and go in that notebook?” I asked.

Eleanor gave me no answer.

She reached over the counter, shut the green leather book with one hand, and tucked it under her arm.

She picked up her teacup and walked past me to the downstairs bedroom by the back stairs.

When she got to her door, she pushed it open, leaving it ajar a few inches while she felt for the light switch inside.

Through the gap, the lamp on her vanity lit up the polished wooden top.