It was a Thursday in February. Gray and cold, with old snow crusted along the sidewalks. I let myself in at nine like always. I called out, “Good morning, Mrs. Whitaker!” like always.
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
Try Translatorson 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.
