55

AFTER STEPPING ONTO the corridor with her hand still on the door handle, she paused as she heard scurrying feet. It seemed like someone had been rushing off away and down the stairs.

“Hello.” She called out but there was silence. She shrugged. Perhaps she had just imagined it.

She let her eyes rest on the portraits along the hall. She focused on the black and white one where Michael’s ancestor had carried his bride. The couple had smiles on their faces. Perhaps they had been in love. Who could tell these days? She and Michael had smiled for the camera. She guessed pictures could lie.

Hearing footsteps approaching, she turned her attention towards the stairs. A man in his late twenties emerged and stepped onto the corridor. He was wearing a cook’s uniform. She recognized him as one of Michael’s household members. Her eyes caught his shoes. The