Booker Blackwell was peeping outside behind the stained-glass of one of the windows above the front gate.

He was almost done dressing. His collar straightened, but his cufflinks hung loose in their holes. Booker slipped on his shoes, but their laces were undone.

His screen lit up in the far corner of his room, but Booker missed that, his eyes fixed on the car that drove off into the distance with the little set of hands still waving at Isabella.

The maid looked different for the evening. She ...