A statement meant to test for fracture.
The housekeeper is unprepared.
"We switched suppliers," she says.
"Security, they said. Fewer stops on the van's route."
Keira's expression is neutral, but her pupils dilate half a millimeter.
"How often?" she asks.
"Twice a week. But the Wicklow farm, they send the rest."
"The farm. Who signs for the drop?"
The woman blinks, turns to the prep counter where a battered clipboard sits in a nest of flour.
She fumbles for the log.
"They don't need a signature. It's just left at the gate."
Keira's lips compress.
"Then who moves it to the cold storage?"
"Me, usually. Or the gardener, if he's on hand."
Keira steps closer.
"Does the gardener have a name?"
"Michael."
She says nothing for a beat.
"Thank you."
I watch from the archway, pretending to be interested in the wine racks.
She walks past me with a deliberate avoidance, eyes fixed on the double doors that lead to the utility corridor.
When I glance at the housekeeper, she is already dialing the head of security, one hand shaking slightly as she rearranges the cutlery.
By noon she has completed a circuit of the household staff.
Her questions are never the same twice, and never the kind that can be dismissed as idle curiosity.
I track her progress from the sound of shuffling feet and the hush that follows each new interrogation.
She is writing a map of the estate, not on paper but in the arrangement of people, and in this, I find myself revising the initial estimate of her threat.
A smile forms on my face as I realize my wife is, perhaps, just as dangerous as I am.
Naturally, by evening, the tension in the house is a living thing.
Her pattern of movement becomes less predictable.
She doubles back, reverses course, appears in rooms where she was not a minute earlier.
