The windows of the parlor were dark, but a warm orange glow spilled from the library windows further down.

I crept closer, staying in the shadow of the tall boxwood hedges.

I peered through the glass.

The library was warm.

A fire crackled in the massive hearth, sending sparks up the chimney.

Mark stood by the mantel, holding a glass of scotch.

He looked relaxed, almost victorious.

But he was not alone.

Patricia sat in the leather armchair by the fire, her head tilted back.

She held a cup of tea, her face pale and pinched.

She looked older than she had a week ago, her eyes darting toward the door every few seconds.

Then, Juliette walked into the frame.

She wore a striking, deep red silk dress.

It was the dress she had bought for the symphony gala next week.

The color was loud, almost violent against the dark wood of the library.

But Juliette did not look triumphant.

She stood near the desk, her arms crossed over her chest.

She was watching Mark.

Her lips were pressed into a thin, tight line.