Chapter 9: Gran's Trap

The housekeeper opened the Beacon Hill door before I could knock, saw the bakery box in my hands and stepped aside without a word.

I could hear Sabine's laugh from the front sitting room.

Light and sweet, the one she used on donors.

I went down the hall so fast the biscuits slid in their box.

Gran was in her wingback chair by the fireplace.

Sabine was bending over her with the teapot, pouring a long amber stream into the blue-and-white cup.

"Stop," I said.

Sabine jumped.

Tea splashed onto the saucer.

"Coralie," she said, recovering, all warmth. "You came. Gran and I were just making up."

I crossed the room and reached for the cup.

Gran moved it out of my reach without looking at me.

"Sit down, sweetheart," she said. "You'll give yourself a stroke and then where will I be."

"Gran."

She winked at me.

It was so small I almost missed it.

Then she tipped her head, very slightly, toward the tea tray.

There was a fresh tin of Earl Grey on it, the paper seal torn just this morning.

A brand-new jar of honey sat beside it with the wax still on the rim of the lid.

Gran's own reading glasses were lying across the tin.

Then she tipped her head the other way, toward the bookshelf beside the window.

There was a little white box on the second shelf, between the Dickens and the bird guides.

My father had put it there last winter after Gran fell in the bathroom.

A camera, so he could check on her from the office.

Gran had hated it so much she'd kept a lace doily over it since February.

The doily was gone.

The little green light was on.

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