The brass latches of the vintage Hartmann suitcase snap open with a sharp, mechanical click. A scent of stale cedar and expensive lavender escapes into the master bathroom, mingling with the damp evening air of the canyon. Outside the mullioned windows, the Hollywood Hills are bruising into a deep violet, the eucalyptus trees casting long, skeletal shadows against the redwood siding. Vivian Reyes lifts a silk blouse from the depths of the trunk, her movements precise and practiced, the habit of a woman who spends her life folding other people’s lives into boxes.
The house is too quiet for a place so close to the city. It smells of floor wax and the faint, lingering ozone of a recently vacuumed rug. This was Margaux’s sanctuary between takes, a hilltop fortress of Craftsman oak and leaded glass that the realtor, Mike Garza, handed over with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Vivian moves to the vanity, reaching for her jar of night cream, but her hand stops mid-air.
Something isn't right. In the dim light, the mirror seems deeper than the wall should allow. The silvering at the edges is worn, blooming with dark, oxidised rosettes. As she leans in to inspect a smudge on the glass, she notices something out of place. Her fingers brush against a cold metal object resting on the otherwise spotless lip of the porcelain sink.
