She didn’t smile too much, and she didn’t ask questions. But she listened to the house.

By the end of the week, she knew which staircase creaked on the fifth step. She knew Mr. Penhaligon slept poorly, because his bedroom lamp stayed on past midnight.

She knew he hated lilies, because every arrangement containing them disappeared by afternoon. And she knew that someone still ordered a small carton of chocolate milk every Tuesday, even though no one drank it.

On Friday evening, rain began to fall against the tall windows like nervous fingers tapping for entry. Maya was in the laundry room folding towels when the lights flickered once, then again, and a second later the entire mansion went dark.

Somewhere upstairs, something crashed to the floor.

“Stay where you are,” Mrs. Gordon called from the corridor. But then Maya heard another sound—a low, strangled gasp, coming from the direction of Arthur’s study.