I parked my car in the driveway, leaving the garage door closed to avoid making noise that might disturb anyone inside.
I walked up the stone steps to the front door, my damp wool coat heavy on my shoulders and smelling of wet fleece.
When I unlocked the heavy oak door and stepped into the warm air of the foyer, the scent of lavender met me.
It was a clean, sharp smell, but beneath it was something else, the faint, sweet scent of a woman’s perfume that I did not wear.
I set my leather folder on the wooden bench by the door, the black leather cold to the touch.
Near the umbrella stand, a pair of black leather ankle boots stood on the stone tile.
They had thin heels and red-painted soles, size seven, looking small against the wide slate tiles.
I did not own red-soled boots, as my wardrobe was strictly limited to practical, low-heeled loafers for the office.
My brother Justin’s wife, Maya, was the only person in our family who wore that specific brand of expensive French footwear.
