rdrooms.
He did not look like a man who stole from coffins.
“Mrs. Parker,” he said, and his voice was polite enough to be a weapon. “This is unexpected.”
“I’m sure,” I said, forcing my own politeness to stay intact. “May I come in?”
He hesitated for half a second too long, then stepped aside.
The house smelled like lemon cleaner and expensive cologne. Quiet. Controlled. No warmth. No clutter. No sense of family life. Everything arranged like a display.
He led me to a dining table that looked like it had never hosted a meal.
“What is this about?” he asked, sitting across from me.
I placed the manila envelope on the table without answering right away.
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