She didn’t answer.
That wasn’t unusual. She was often out. But her car was in the driveway. And her purse was on the hall table. And her reading glasses were on the kitchen counter, next to a cup of tea that had gone cold, with the tea bag still in it.
Mrs. Whitaker never left a tea bag in a cup. Never.
I stood in the kitchen and felt something cold go down the back of my neck.
“Mrs. Whitaker?”
Nothing.
I went through the downstairs. Living room. Dining room. The little study with the rolltop desk. Empty.
I went up the stairs. I called her name again. My voice sounded thin and strange in that big quiet house.
Her bedroom door was open. Her bed was made. And the door to her bathroom, the one with
the claw-foot tub, was half closed.
I pushed it open.
She was lying on the tile floor between the tub and the sink. She was wearing her flannel nightgown.
