"Is this villa yours?"
The question left Ambrose's lips before Maxwell Crawford had even finished catching his breath. The man stood in the doorway of Villa A6, shoulders hunched beneath a wrinkled dress shirt, his thinning hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. The night air carried the faint scent of expensive cologne and something sharper, something closer to fear.
Maxwell shook his head so quickly it looked like a reflex. "No, it isn't mine," he said, his voice cracking on the denial and pitching upward in a way that made him sound ten years older. "This villa belongs to Grant Archer, the deputy general manager at Lakeport Properties."
Ambrose let the silence stretch for a beat, watching the older man's throat bob as he swallowed. The interior behind him was tastefully lit, warm
