Sunlight spilled across the ivory carpet of the mansion like gold. Everything was still, still and perfect. Beth Rowe lay reclined on a cream velvet chaise in her sitting room, wrapped in a silk robe the color of champagne. Her polished and pink bare feet rested on the edge of an ottoman as she slowly sipped a glass of freshly pressed cucumber juice.

She was at peace.

A gentle classical piece played through the surround sound system, maybe Brahms, something cultured and precise, something ...