The suspicious husband got home early—thankfully—and I returned to my apartment, Isla in tow. She was babbling happily as she munched on a french fry when I knocked on Mrs. Taffett’s door. She yanked it open, heaving for breath. For once, she wasn’t an utter mess. “Come in. I’m making dinner.” I stepped inside and looked around. The whole place was spotless. The laundry had been washed. The dishes were put away. She’d picked up toys and organized the things that had been scattered everywhere. Compared to what I usually encountered when I ended up inside her apartment, this was…