Lily sat at the long mahogany breakfast table, untouched coffee cooling in her hands. The events of the night before still throbbed in her mind the blackmail, Mrs. Kavinsky’s entrance, the cutting words that stripped her of choice.

Now, the house was too quiet. The silence was heavy, like the hush before a storm.

She heard the soft, controlled steps before she saw her — Mrs. Kavinsky, impeccable in a cream silk blouse, diamonds winking at her ears, every inch the picture of grace. The older woman’s expression was unreadable, but her presence filled the room like smoke.

“Eat, Lily,” Mrs. Kavinsky said simply, as if there were no tension,...