Chapter 2 - The Sound of Polyurethane Wheels
The front door did not swing open; it clicked.
The sound of the heavy brass deadbolt retreating was sharp, precise, and completely out of place in the chaotic house.
A set of polyurethane suitcase wheels hissed against the Italian floor tiles.
Elena stepped into the foyer.
Her black suit was cut like armor, the lapels sharp enough to draw blood.
Underneath, a stark white silk shirt caught the dimming light of the afternoon.
She did not sigh. She did not drop her bags.
Her spine was a rigid steel rod as her eyes swept the expanse of her own home.
The air in the entryway was cool, aggressively filtered by the central air, but the stench of stale fry grease and old beer drifted from the living room.
Her perfectly manicured fingers, painted a deep, bruised plum, tightened around the telescopic handle of her luggage.
The knuckles turned white.
She left the suitcase exactly where it stood.
Her leather soles made absolutely no sound as she began the long walk down the hallway.
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She moved with the silent, terrifying grace of a predator calculating a strike.
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