“Be careful,” I said. “Message me when you get to the hotel.”
He agreed, grabbed his keys, and left. I watched him disappear through the carved oak door—and felt a faint, uneasy tug in my chest. A warning I brushed aside. Maybe it was just the guilty relief of having the house to myself for a few days.
Later that afternoon, after several meetings at the office, my thoughts drifted to Laura—my best friend since college. She’d texted me the day before, claiming she’d been admitted to a hospital in Segovia with acute typhoid fever. Laura lived alone in that unfamiliar city. I’d always tried to help her. The little house she stayed in was one of my properties, and I’d let her live there rent-free out of compassion.
“Poor Laura,” I murmured. “She must feel so lonely.”
I glanced at the time—two o’clock. My afternoon was suddenly wide open, and an idea hit me: why not visit her? Segovia was only a couple of hours away if traffic behaved. I could surprise her with her favorite cocido and a basket of fresh fruit.
That alone made me blink. Laura didn’t work. How was she paying for a suite like that? But optimism quickly patched over my suspicion. Maybe she had savings. And if not—fine. I’d cover it.
Fruit basket in hand, I walked through corridors that smelled of antiseptic, though everything still felt polished and expensive. My footsteps echoed against marble. My heart wasn’t afraid—it was eager.
The elevator chimed on the third floor. I found room 305 at the far end of a quiet hallway, slightly isolated. And when I got close, I noticed the door wasn’t fully shut—just barely open.
I lifted a hand to knock… then froze.
Laughter drifted out.
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