Rose Madder

A click, not much of a sound but loud in the silence. This was followed by another sound: meep-meep-meep-meep. The burglar alarm. Norman had company.

A

“Hello, the house!” she called, walking down the hall. Silence replied, which was what she’d expected… and, let’s face it, hoped for. With any luck, she might have two or even three hours of blessed silence before the commencement of that night’s giggling, hissing showers, slamming doors, and cackling sitcoms. She walked into the kitchen, wondering if maybe a long leisurely bath, Calgon and all, wouldn’t smooth off the worst of the day. Then she stopped, frowning across at her study door. It was standing ajar.

“Goddammit,” she muttered.

“God damn it!” If there was one thing she disliked above all others-except maybe for touchy-huggy-feely people-it was having her privacy invaded. She had no lock on her study door because she did not believe she should be reduced to that. This was her place, after all; the girls and women who came here came through her generosity and at her sufferance. She shouldn’t need a lock on that door. Her desire that they should stay out unless invited in ought to have been enough. Mostly it was, but every now and then some woman would decide she really needed some piece of her documentation, that she really needed to use A