26
This is it, Elisabeth thought.
She looked about her at the front room. Normally, it was cluttered and messy, dust balls catching at the corners of the furniture, piles of paper sliding off the old oak-top desk. But right now, it was as neat as a pin.
In other words, it had been emptied of every bit of its identity. No more Burnham clutter.
The papers were gone. The dust had been swept away. She could even see that the tops of the ancient, heavy drapes had been feather dusted for cobwebs.
That would have been Gunnar's handiwork—she couldn't remember the last time she'd wielded a feather duster. Perhaps never. And to be fair, she didn't know if Gunnar himself had done any dusting. He seemed to have friends in every conceivable profession and owning every conceivable vehicle—what he w
