What on earth would Mrs. Carrington want a lawyer separate from her husband for? Did she have some sort of love child or something?

Zechariah opened the door, dressed well but indistinctly with his hair stuffed up into his hat. His eyes landed first on her arm, and for a moment his mortification showed.

Her arm was in a sling! What on earth had happened to this poor woman? This poor woman who was still grieving her eldest son? Clad in black, as if the news alone were not enough to make a man pause. What kind of monster would do this to a woman, let alone a grieving one?

“Mrs. Carrington,” he greeted, solemn. “Zechariah Mire, Esquire,” he introduced. “What—” happened? “—brings you here?” he managed instead.