Continue: Then I saw her. Patricia was descending the main staircase, but not with her usual calm. She walked quickly, almost stumbling, her designer bag over her shoulder and car keys jingling in her hand. She looked impeccable, as always: perfect makeup, salon-waved blonde hair, a dress that probably cost more than many families earn in a month. But there was something in her eyes, a fleeting flash of nervousness she tried to hide behind a forced smile.
“Oh, Adrian, you’re early,” she said without stopping, breezing past me like a gust of expensive perfume and coldness. “Look, I’m terribly late for my appointment at the salon. Valentina is in her room.” next part here:
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