I got back to the estate at nine thirty.
The house felt different when I walked in. Not visibly. Nothing had moved. Mrs. Park was at the end of the hallway doing whatever Mrs. Park did at nine thirty on a Tuesday morning. The entrance hall looked the same. The light through the tall windows was the same pale autumn gold it always was at this hour.
But something was different.
The kind of different you feel before you can name it. Like the air in a room just before a storm arrives. Still on the surface and charged underneath.
Mrs. Park looked up when I came in.
"Mr. Cole is looking for you," she said.
Not good morning. Not her usual careful neutrality. Just that, direct and slightly clipped, which from Mrs. Park was the equivalent of anyone else saying something is wrong and it is bad
