The door opened, and a woman in her mid-forties greeted us with a polite smile. She wore a neatly pressed black blouse and slacks, her demeanor professional and composed. “You must be Ms. Muller and Kelvin,” she said. “Please, come in.”
We stepped inside, Kelvin clutching my hand tightly. The entryway was vast, with tall ceilings and a polished marble floor that gleamed under soft lighting. Everything gleamed as though it had been cleaned just moments before. Vanessa immediately felt out of place. The house didn’t feel lived-in. It was too perfect, like one of those designer homes featured in magazines—made for show, not for family.
The woman gestured toward a small bench near the door. “You can leave your coats here,” she said.
I hesitated, then helped Kelvin out of his coat before shr
