When he arrived, Jeremiah Wilcox knocked politely on the door, just like any normal caller might. No lightning bolts, no puff of smoke. Not that Danica had really expected him to do anything that would call attention to himself. The Wilcox clan had survived all those years precisely because they knew how to blend in.
“Mr. Wilcox,” she said politely as she held open the door for him to enter. Mrs. Wilson had told her that she should treat the boarding house as her own home, and that meant greeting her own callers, as the older woman didn’t employ any servants, except a boy who came around once a week to clean up the yard and take out the garbage.
“Miss Prewitt,” Jeremiah Wilcox replied. He stood just inside the entryway, dark eyes taking in every detail of the interior of the house. “It’s
