Footsteps sounded on the basement stairs, heavy and in no hurry.

Chloe came down as far as the middle landing and rested one hand on the painted pine handrail.

She looked at my black trash bag on the floor, then at the blue folder spread out on the table.

“Have you got any extra bath towels down here?” she asked, her voice sliding into a dramatic, whiny pitch.

“Look in the linen closet upstairs in the main hall,” I said.

“Vance used those for the dog,” Chloe said, her thumb swiping nonstop across her glowing phone.