Frances Cary walked briskly along Mandeville Road, carrying her travel bag, a faint smile playing on her lips. She had just returned from Manchester and was chatting with her friend Irene, whom she had run into at the corner. Ahead, the familiar silhouette of the Borodene Building came into view.

“Honestly, Frances,” Irene said teasingly, “your apartment is like a fashionable absinthe prison.”

Frances chuckled, brushing off the remark. “Nonsense! It’s quite comfortable, really. Sharing with Claudia has been a stroke of luck. She’s incredibly quiet and never intrudes. Plus, the cleaning lady she hired keeps everything running smoothly.”

“And isn’t there a third girl living there?” Irene asked thoughtfully.

“Oh, yes, but she seems to have ‘abandoned’ us,” Frances replied dismissively.

“Meaning she’s not paying rent anymore?”

“It’s not about the money. I think her boyfriend may have whisked her away,” Frances said with a hint of disdain.

“A boyfriend? Well, that explains everything,” Irene said indifferently, steering the conversation back to Frances’s travels. “So, you’re back from Manchester?”

“Yes, I was there for a private exhibition. Not public, but reasonably successful.”

“And you’re still planning to go to Vienna next month?”

“Yes, I think I’ve made up my mind. It should be an interesting trip.”

“But what if your paintings get stolen? That would be a disaster.”

“Don’t worry; the valuable ones are insured.” Frances shrugged, her tone light. “Peter’s exhibition wasn’t a huge success, but at least it got a decent review in The Artist magazine. That’s something.”

At the crossroads, the two women parted ways, Irene heading to her small apartment while Frances continued toward the Borodene Building. She greeted the doorman with a nod, then took the elevator up to the sixth floor, humming a tune as she went.

The hallway was silent. Frances pulled out her key, inserted it into the lock, and pushed open the door. The entryway light wasn’t on.

“That’s odd,” she muttered to herself. She knew Claudia wouldn’t be home for another hour, but through the slightly ajar living room door, she could see that the lights in there were on.

Frances frowned. “Strange.” She set her coat aside, dropped her travel bag near the door, and walked toward the living room.

The moment she pushed the door open, she froze. The sight before her was so shocking that she stood rooted to the spot.

On the floor lay a young man, his arms outstretched, his chestnut hair fanned across his shoulders. He was dressed in a deep red velvet jacket, but his white shirt was soaked with blood, the dark stain spreading across the fabric and pooling on the floor like a grotesque piece of modern art.

Her gaze shifted to the mirror on the wall, where she saw her own face twisted in horror. Her lips trembled as she tried to speak, but no sound came out. After several seconds, she managed to take a gasping breath, her body regaining some strength. She turned abruptly and ran out of the apartment, screaming.

In the hallway, she nearly tripped over her travel bag before reaching the door of the neighboring apartment. She banged on it frantically.

An older woman opened the door, her face a mix of confusion and concern.

“What’s going on?” the woman asked.

Frances stammered, barely coherent. “Someone’s dead! In my apartment… It’s David Baker! He’s on the floor, covered in blood! He’s been…stabbed!”

Her voice quivered with fear, and she broke down into hysterical sobs. Miss Jacobs, the neighbor, quickly handed her a glass of brandy.

“Calm down. Drink this,” Miss Jacobs said firmly.

Frances took the glass with shaking hands and downed it in one gulp. Meanwhile, Miss Jacobs hurried to Frances’s apartment. When she opened the living room door, she, too, was struck speechless by the scene.

The young man’s lifeless body lay in the center of the room, his elegant clothing starkly contrasting with the crimson stains on the floor. But there was someone else in the room—a young woman. She stood against the wall, pale and holding a bloodied kitchen knife. Her white wool dress was speckled with tiny red spots.

The girl lifted her gaze to Miss Jacobs, her voice eerily calm.

“I killed him… The blood splattered on my hands. I wanted to wash it off, but I thought it wouldn’t matter, so I came back. I just needed to see if it was real… And it is. Poor David… But I think I had to do it.”

Miss Jacobs struggled to find her voice. Finally, she managed to ask, “Why? Why did you do it?”

The girl’s calm demeanor didn’t waver. “I don’t know… Or maybe I do. He came to me… I wanted to get rid of him. I didn’t really love him,” she said, her voice carrying a note of exhaustion.

She slowly placed the knife on the table and sank into a chair.

“Hating someone is dangerous, isn’t it?” she murmured. “You never know what you might do… Just like Louise…”

Then, she looked up, her tone turning almost matter-of-fact. “Aren’t you going to call the police?”

Miss Jacobs hesitated for only a moment before picking up the phone and dialing 999.