Katherine smiled with satisfaction.
What she did not know was that Saturday night would be the last party she ever hosted in that mansion.
For fifty-eight days, Monica Adams had lived in a windowless basement room beneath the Prescott staircase.
The bed was narrow.
The walls smelled faintly of damp plaster.
A naked lightbulb flickered whenever the central heating system started.
Katherine called it “staff quarters.”
Monica privately called it evidence.
Every morning began at 4:30.
She ironed.
Scrubbed.
Polished.
Carried breakfast upstairs.
Katherine usually ate at eight.
Toast.
Egg whites.
Half a grapefruit.
Black coffee.
And complaints.
“The toast is cold.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“This coffee is weak.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“There’s a crease in this sleeve.”
“I’ll redo it.”
Katherine never needed to shout.
She had perfected something more effective.
Contempt.
Sometimes she simply snapped her fingers.
One snap meant water.
Two meant remove the plate.
Three meant come immediately.
