The doorbell rang at 9:07 p.m.
I remember the exact time because I had been staring at the clock above the fireplace, wondering how a house so large could feel so suffocating.
“Not tonight,” I muttered, pressing two fingers against the pain pulsing behind my right eye.
My name is Victoria. I am 53 years old, and that day I was exhausted from a 14-hour day at Bennett Global and in no mood for visitors. My husband, Richard, was away on business, the staff had gone home, and rain lashed against the windows like the sky was trying to claw its way inside.
The bell rang again.
Then again.
I stood so quickly my wineglass trembled on the table.