Chapter 1: The Morning Inspection
The eggs were perfect. Margaret had scrambled them on low heat, folding them just before they set, the way Calvin preferred. She'd laid out his gray suit, polished his shoes, and set the coffee to the exact darkness he liked — three spoonfuls of grounds, no more, no less. The kitchen smelled of butter and something faintly chemical, a ghost of her basement work that she'd scrubbed from her hands an hour ago.
Calvin came down at 7:12, eighteen minutes before his train. He sat without acknowledging her, unfolded the newspaper, and took a sip of coffee. Margaret stood at the counter, hands clasped, watching the pulse in his throat move as he swallowed.
"Sit," he said, not looking up.
She sat.
The clock on the wall ticked. Outside, a patrol car drifted past, slow as a shark. Margaret counted the seconds until he spoke again, because in the Hamilton house, silence was either a gift or a warning, and she hadn't yet learned to tell the difference.
"What's on the schedule today?" he asked, turning the page.
Her answer came automatic, rehearsed — "Laundry, the grocery, then I thought I'd tend the roses in the afternoon"