The lobby was huge and had a high, vaulted ceiling. There was a stone fireplace at one end and a grouping of velvet-covered chairs and sofas no one ever sat in at the other. Just ahead, the concierge's desk stood unattended. It was after eleven and Madame Delain had retired for the night.
Beyond, shadowed in darkness, the ornate wrought-iron elevator cage waited.
She hesitated. Was the lobby always this dark and silent?
What on earth was wrong with her tonight? Of course it was dark and silent. It was almost midnight. She'd come home at this hour hundreds of times before. Actually, she'd come home far later.
But she'd never felt so uneasy, so—so...
Miranda frowned, marched to the elevator and stepped inside. The door clanged shut and she pressed the button for the third floor. The car rose slowly, as it always did, and with its usual accompaniment of rattles and moans. When she'd first moved in here, a couple of years ago, the sounds had struck her as spooky.
Now, for some silly reason, they sounded spooky again.
At the third floor, the car groaned to a shuddering halt and as it did, the bulb that lit the hall that stretched ahead of her blinked out.
Miranda swallowed dryly. So what? She didn't need the light to guide her. She'd made this walk in the dark before. The wiring in the old building wasn't good; lights were always going on and off for no reason. Tenants grumbled about it to each other all the time.
But there was a tight feeling in the pit of her belly. She didn't want to put her hand on the brass knob of the elevator door, turn it, and step outside.
It would take just a couple of minutes to go back downstairs and rouse Madame Delain. Madame would roll her eyes but her husband, a plump little man with a sweet smile, would be more than happy to take a flashlight, ride upstairs with her and walk her to her door.
And wouldn't she feel like a fool, if he did.
Whatever is the matter with you tonight, Miranda?
She gave herself a little shake, opened the elevator door and hurried to her apartment. Her hands were unsteady and she fumbled with the key before she managed to get it into the lock but finally the door swung open.
She stepped inside, let out a sigh of relief, shut the door behind her and reached for the light switch.
Click.
The room remained dark.
The hair stirred at the nape of her neck. Was this bulb out, too?
Coincidence, that was all it was.
Wasn't it?
Her nostrils dilated. What was that scent in the air? It was very faint. Perfume, or cologne.
But not hers.
Her heart started to race. She put her hand over it and told herself to stop being silly. Of course, the scent wasn't hers. She'd just come from a party where the guests had been packed in like sardines in a can. Clouds of stuff had filled the air. T
his wouldn't be the first time she'd come home with drifts of someone's Opium or Blue Water, whatever, in her hair and on her clothes.
Her heart banged again.
Where was Mia?
She'd had the cat for almost three years and in all that time, Mia had never missed the chance to come racing to the door and weave around her ankles while she said "Hello, where have you been all this time?" in a discordant, Siamese purr.
Miranda stared into the darkness. She could see nothing, hear nothing, but the racing thud of her heart.
"Mia?" she whispered.
Nothing moved.