Clara Álvarez had dust in her lungs and lemon cleaner on her hands for most of her life, but she never cared.
The Hamilton estate sat atop a hill in Westchester, New York, forty minutes from Manhattan, a world apart from everything else. Tall hedges, iron gates, white columns. The kind of place where people stopped to look as they walked by.
Clara had walked up that path for eleven years.
She knew every creak in the floorboards, every smudge on the glass doors, every lingering stain on the white marble of the foyer. She knew which light bulbs flickered and which faucets dripped. She knew that if you didn’t move the handle in the downstairs guest bathroom, the water would keep running all night.Most of all, she knew the people.
Adam Hamilton, forty-three years old, a tech investor with a million-dollar smile when he remembered to use it. A widower for three years, he still wore his wedding ring out of habit.
His son, Ethan, seven years old, more dinosaur than child most days, with elbows, questions, and unexpected hugs.
And Margaret.
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