She pointed toward the hallway. Everyone in the dining room turned. This time, they all saw the face—the face of an old woman with careworn eyes sunk into deeply etched skin. The woman stepped into the dining room. “Excuse me,” she said, looking as startled to see the Kims as they were to see her. “I didn’t know that anyone was in the house.” “Who—who are you?” sputtered Mr. Kim. “I am Karina Walcott,” the old woman replied. Her heavy winter coat was covered in snow. “I have been the caretaker here at the Wharton Mansion for many years. I moved here from back east twenty years ago and worked for Mr. Wharton during that entire time, until he died that is. This is the first time I have been inside the house for a year.” “Why are you here now?” Mr. Kim asked. “When Mr. Wharton died, there was a dispute over the will and this house among two of his distant cousins,” Ms. Walcott explained. “I was rushed from the house before I had a chance to gather up the last of my possessions.
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