You’d been at the job for three weeks now. Long enough to learn the layout of the houses on this street, the names of the women who managed the rotas, the way the cleaning supplies smelled when they mixed with damp wool and radiator heat.

Long enough to know which houses had families in them, and which ones just had the quiet.

The address on the slip in your pocket was number 47. A restored Victorian with a black door, brass numbers polished to a mirror shine, and a small porcelain bowl of keys on the hall table.

You let yourself in.