Jack Davis was never one to rock the boat. Sure, things had changed a little when he’d enlisted, but the moment he came home, everything was expected to go back to normal. He was alone in his family’s home, his sisters and brother off on their own.

It was as lonely as it had ever been—large and empty and stiff, about as inviting as a mortuary. Tall white pillars loomed in front of a solid brick face, an elegant ivory-covered door centered between rows of large glass windows, each adorned with a pair of shutters, dark green ivy pulling them in.

Daily, he walked up and down the intimidating grand staircase, pushed off to the side of a marble-floored foyer, a showy chandelier lighting the steps. Most of his days were spent alone, even at the young age of twenty-eight—it seemed that Jack was lost easily here, in more ways than one.

Ignoring the doorbell was second-nature to him—actually, he’d never answered a goddamn doorbell in his life. Besides, it was never for him, which meant there was no need to disturb himself.

… Then again, there wasn’t ever much to disturb in the first place. He read, he listened to programs on the radio, occasionally sat outside on the back porch. Finished with school—something his parents had forced him to do when he had returned—and waiting to take over the family business, there wasn’t much he could do. Today, though, he painted—as he did every Thursday afternoon. His parents disapproved, of course, but found no harm in it, as long as he kept up his end of the deal when the time came.

But when the doorbell rang, it was Victor that answered—the Davis family’s… serviceman, of sorts. Pulling the door open, he greeted the guest with a face void of all expression. “May I help you?” was all the old man said, hand on the doorknob.