Oliver Stackhouse tossed the remnants of his lunch into the trash can beside his desk and wiped his hands on his napkin, which he then tossed into the can after his discarded meal. He took out a bottle of hand sanitizer and cleaned his hands as well as the top of his desk before putting everything back in its proper place from where he had moved it to clear a spot for his lunch. With a full belly, he then reached for his file, ready to work once more. His wife, Liberty, would fuss at him for eating at his desk, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. At least, he hoped it wouldn’t hurt him. Liberty had an uncanny way of knowing things he didn’t want her to know. In New Orleans, he blamed it on her mother, Maureen, a nosy witch who had already proven she didn’t much care for him. He oft
