Fiona
Linda had worked at the mansion for almost six years, long enough to know the rhythm of the house better than most, and long enough, apparently, to notice when something about that rhythm shifted in ways she couldn't quite explain.
I felt her watching me before I ever caught her at it directly. Small things at first. The way her eyes lingered a beat too long when I answered a question a certain way, or the slight frown that crossed her face whenever Mr. Chester asked specifically for Thea instead of whoever happened to be nearest.
"You've been different lately," she said one afternoon, cornering me near the linen closet with a stack of folded sheets in her arms. "Faster. Sharper. Since when do you know exactly which book Mr. Chester hides his papers in?"
"I've worked here a long
