“Yes. Yes, this is Carly.”
“My name is Margaret Whitaker. I saw your card at the library. I have a house on Linden Street.
Four bedrooms, three baths. I need someone once a week. Are you available on Thursdays?”
I was available every day of the week. I was available at three in the morning if she wanted. But I
tried to sound like a professional.
“Let me check,” I said. I stood there in the rain holding my phone and counted to five. “Yes. I have Thursdays open.”
“Good. Could you come by tomorrow at ten? So we can meet. And so you can see the house.”
“Of course.”
“You’re crying,” she said.
I froze. I hadn’t made a sound. At least, I didn’t think I had.
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s all right. It’s raining, too. I can hear it.” There was a short pause. “Ten o’clock tomorrow. 418
