Mrs. Oliver drove into the courtyard of Borodene Mansions. The cramped parking area was already full, and as she hesitated, a car began to back out of a spot. Seizing the opportunity, she expertly maneuvered her car into the vacant space with practiced precision.

After shutting the car door, she straightened up and glanced at the building. It was a post-war construction erected on land that had once belonged to a coal depot, originally part of West Avenue. Mrs. Oliver frowned slightly, thinking, Practical, yes, but the architect clearly had no concern for aesthetics. The structure stood cold and impersonal, like a monolithic machine.

The courtyard buzzed with activity—cars coming and going, pedestrians hurrying about. A quick check of her wristwatch showed 6:50 p.m., prime time for young women returning home or heading out for the evening. She felt confident this was the perfect time.

The building had two symmetrical wings, each with a revolving door at the center. Choosing the left door, she soon realized she had made a mistake when she noticed the unit numbers started at 100. Sighing, she retraced her steps to the right wing, where she quickly located No. 67.

Apartment 67 was on the sixth floor. Pressing the elevator button, she heard the mechanical clunk as the door opened like the jaws of a metal beast. A pang of unease hit her, but she stepped inside. The door slammed shut, and after a brief ascent, the elevator abruptly jolted to a stop. Startled, she stumbled out at her floor, feeling like a startled rabbit fleeing a trap.

Walking down the hallway, she finally reached a door with a brass “67” plaque. As she raised her hand to knock, the number “7” suddenly fell off, landing on her foot. Muttering under her breath, “This place clearly doesn’t want me here,” she bent down, picked up the number, and carefully reattached it.

She pressed the doorbell, half expecting no one to be home. To her surprise, the door opened almost immediately. A tall, poised young woman stood in the doorway, dressed in a well-tailored dark blazer and miniskirt, complemented by a white silk blouse and polished shoes. Her sleek, jet-black hair was styled meticulously, and her makeup was understated but elegant.

Mrs. Oliver hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Is Miss Restarick at home?”

“I’m afraid she’s out,” the woman replied, her tone polite but firm. “May I ask what this is regarding? I can pass along a message.”

Feigning indecision, Mrs. Oliver pulled a brown paper package from her bag. “I promised to give her a book—one of mine. She hasn’t read it yet, and I thought she might enjoy it.” Pausing, she added casually, “Will she be back tonight?”

“I couldn’t say. Norma doesn’t usually share her schedule with us.”

Mrs. Oliver smiled warmly. “You must be Miss Claudia Reece-Holland?”

The woman blinked in surprise but nodded. “Yes, I’m Claudia Reece-Holland.”

“I’ve met your father,” Mrs. Oliver said, slipping into her most genial tone. “I’m Mrs. Oliver, the detective novelist.”

Claudia offered a polite smile. “Would you like to come in for a moment?”

Mrs. Oliver accepted with a gracious nod and followed her into the living room. The décor was minimalist yet distinctly modern—artificial wood-paneled walls, built-in furniture, and a bold aesthetic. A poster of a clown hung on one wall, alongside a painting of monkeys swinging from a palm tree, giving the space an eclectic charm that hinted at Claudia’s personality.

“Norma will be thrilled to receive your book,” Claudia said warmly. “Can I offer you something to drink? Sherry or gin?”

“No, thank you,” Mrs. Oliver declined, stepping toward the window. “The view here is lovely.”

“Yes, though the elevator can be a nightmare when it breaks down,” Claudia replied, her tone neutral.

As they spoke, another young woman entered the room. Tall and striking, she wore a violet jumpsuit paired with a thick sweater. Her heavy makeup featured exaggeratedly arched brows and thickly coated lashes. She gave Mrs. Oliver a brief, skeptical glance, her demeanor noticeably cooler.

“This is Frances Cary,” Claudia introduced smoothly. “And this is Mrs. Oliver.”

Frances nodded curtly, her indifference a stark contrast to Claudia’s polished manners.

Mrs. Oliver smiled diplomatically. “I brought a book for Norma Restarick. She hasn’t returned yet, has she?”

Claudia and Frances exchanged a fleeting, loaded glance before Claudia replied, “She might still be in the countryside on business. We live fairly independently here and don’t often share our plans.”

Mrs. Oliver nodded understandingly and rose to leave. “Then I’ll leave it in your capable hands to pass it along.”

Claudia accompanied her to the door. “I’ll be sure to let my father know we’ve met. He’s a big fan of your books.”

As the door closed behind her, Frances leaned against the window, a perplexed expression on her face.

“Claudia, did I say something wrong?” she asked in a low voice.

“I told her Norma was out, and then you mentioned she was in the countryside,” Claudia replied coolly.

Frances shrugged. “Where is she, though? Why didn’t she come back on Monday?”

Claudia’s tone grew sharper. “I don’t know.”

“She’s not acting normal,” Frances muttered, her voice dropping to a hushed intensity. “Sometimes she gives me the creeps.”

Claudia sighed deeply, her voice softening. “She’s odd, yes. But it’s just a little oddness, that’s all.”