Moving down to the next door, I pause and question my own sanity. What if he’s in here? What if he’s sleeping? What on earth am I going to do if he catches me and fires me for breaking the rules and trespassing into his private space—again? That would tear Bea up. I should turn away now. A wise woman certainly would. And yet I’m resting my hand on the next door, the last on the left. I’m a fool for this, but I can’t help myself. Moving at a speed that could only be categorized as agonizingly slow, I turn the handle and press open the door. What I expect is a bedroom. I expect a bed, a dresser,
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