Helen stood near the door with one hand still on the frame, her face suddenly drained of color. She was not a dramatic woman. You had clocked that the second she entered your foyer with her cheap canvas bag and plain gray sweater and eyes too calm for someone asking for a cleaning job in a house like yours. But now even that calm looked shaken.
“What did you say?” you asked.
She swallowed once.
Then she turned toward you, and her voice came out low and certain in a way that made the back of your neck go cold.
“I said she’s still here.”
Behind you, Martha made a frightened sound.
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