“In this world, you either control the narrative or you get crushed by it.”

“Right now, I control the narrative.”

“Your father is upstairs, completely oblivious, trusting me to manage his home.”

“And in five minutes, the police will be here to clean up this little mess.”

She raised her phone again, looking at the screen.

“Perhaps I should call your father down now,” she said, her thumb hovering over the glass.

“Let him see his daughters standing up for a thief.”

“Let him see how much of a distraction you really are.”

I watched her hand, waiting for her to make the call.

But before her thumb could touch the screen, a faint, metallic click echoed from the direction of the hallway.

It was the sound of a door handle turning.

The heavy mahogany door that led from the main hallway to the kitchen transition room was opening.

Patricia froze, her eyes shifting instantly toward the sound.

She quickly lowered her phone, her expression shifting in a fraction of a second from cold malice to a look of soft, concerned worry.