A widowed businessman returns early to his quiet mansion, ready to confront the housekeeper, but what he sees changes everything

brushing her hands on her jeans, and he could see her recalibrating rapidly — reading his expression, preparing an explanation. She was twenty-four years old, he knew from her file, and she had the look of someone who had learned early that initiative in other people’s spaces required justification.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mercer,” she said, and the words continue reading …