Chapter 4 - The Paradise Valley High-Rise
The sleek glass facade of the Paradise Valley high-rise glittered blindingly in the harsh morning sunlight. Towering ten stories above the manicured desert landscaping, the building screamed modern luxury and exclusivity. I parked my sedan in a visitor spot three blocks away, keeping a safe distance from the security cameras mounted at the main entrance.
With my sunglasses on and the hood of my jacket pulled low, I blended in with a group of residents casually strolling out for their morning coffee runs. As the heavy glass security door swung open for them, I slipped inside behind a man carrying a yoga mat, flashing a polite, confident nod to the front desk concierge who was busy chatting on a headset.
According to the dry cleaning receipts and geo-tagged background details in Elena’s photos, her apartment was unit 704 on the seventh floor.
The elevator ride was agonizingly smooth and silent. As the digital floor indicator ticked upward—3, 4, 5, 6, 7—my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. When the doors slid open with a soft chime, I stepped out onto the plush, sound-dampened carpet of the seventh-floor hallway.
Unit 704 was located near the end of the corridor, tucked away in a quiet corner that offered a private view of the valley. I walked slowly, my footsteps muffled by the thick flooring, until I stood directly in front of the dark wood door.
I held my breath and listened.
Faint, muffled sounds filtered through the wood—the upbeat tempo of a morning talk show playing on a television, the distinct clinking of ceramic mugs, and the low murmur of a man’s voice.
A voice I would know anywhere.
Miguel.
He wasn't in Dallas. He had never gone to Dallas. The business trip was a meticulously orchestrated lie designed to give him an extended weekend with Elena.
A wave of white-hot fury surged through me, burning away every trace of hesitation or fear. My hand rose, and before I could second-guess myself, my knuckles struck the door three sharp, unforgiving times. Knock. Knock. Knock.
Inside, the television abruptly muted. The murmuring stopped. Silence swallowed the hallway, heavy and tense.
Footsteps approached the door from the inside—light, hesitant steps, followed by the heavy, familiar tread of leather shoes.
The security peephole darkened as someone peered out to inspect the visitor. Then, the deadbolt clicked. The handle turned downward with a sharp metallic snap.
May you like
The door swung open, revealing Elena Vance wrapped in a silk bathrobe, her chestnut hair falling loosely over her shoulders, looking fresh and radiant. But as her green eyes locked onto mine, the color drained completely from her face.
Behind her, frozen in the middle of the living room holding a steaming mug of coffee, stood Miguel. His face went chalk white, his jaw dropping open as the coffee mug slipped from his fingers, shattering loudly against the hardwood floor.
