She strode across the damp, leafy lawn, nearly tripped on a stone in the middle of the dark path, and knocked on the door of the barn. No, not the barn, the carriage house, the very nicely, expensively appointed carriage house. She looked down with dismay at her wine-stained stockings, but she had to take care of this now, before the whole situation got out of hand. Eventually, she heard Sarah shuffling across the floor, and when she’d finished rattling the locks, she opened the door wrapped in a blue and red and yellow blanket. Undoubtedly, it had taken her this long to answer the door because she was searching for this attention-getting prop, a not-so-subtle reminder to Jane that she was freezing to death in the overheated “barn.”

“May I come in?” Jane asked.

Sarah opened the door wider. “It’s your house.”

“Thomas and I own it, if that’s what you mean, but I’ve never once come in unless I was invited.”

“No. In fact, I can’t remember the last time you were in here, Jane.”

So the gloves were off!

The washing machine was running in the room off the kitchen and the whole house smelled of bleach. Jane couldn’t remember the last time she was here either, but she remembered the smell; Sarah seemed to have a bleach fetish. She washed everything in bleach, she cleaned every surface with it, for all Jane knew, she bathed in it. As soon as Jane left, she’d probably disinfect the air with it. Jane sat on the sofa and Sarah, very carefully and slowly, lowered herself onto a Bentwood rocker piled high with worn cushions and pillows. It was one of the few pieces of furniture Sarah had supplied herself and, judging from the looks of it, the only piece of furniture Sarah used. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and forced an unconvincing shiver to run through her body. It was so unattractive, a robust woman like Sarah playing the infirm old lady. Jane wasn’t going to play nice-nice, not today. They’d gone past that.

“If you’re cold, you can turn up the heat,” Jane said. “We installed the most efficient and reliable heating system we could find, so there’s no need to sit here shivering, wrapped in blankets.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Jane.” Sarah reached up and touched her big white wig. What was the point, Jane wondered, of going to the trouble, expense, and discomfort of wearing a wig if it only served to make you look worse than you did without it? “I won’t be here much longer, so I’m not going to be running up your heating bills.”