Your fingers hover over the broken custard tart, the sweet scent suddenly cloying in the thick office air. Using the edge of your letter opener, you carefully pry apart the flaky layers. The golden custard gives way to reveal something metallic glinting beneath—a small brass key stamped with the number '217'. Mrs. Chase gasps, her handkerchief flying to her mouth. 'That's... that's from the Grand Markham Hotel,' she whispers. 'Our anniversary suite.'

The key feels unnaturally cold in your palm. You glance at the bakery bag—Tommy Wong's handwriting on the receipt looks rushed, the ink smudged where someone grabbed it too quickly. A chill runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the fog outside. That gold-toothed grin flashes in your memory, but now you notice how his eyes darted toward the office stairs the whole time.

Mrs. Chase suddenly grips your wrist, her gloves damp with sweat. 'Charlotte stayed there last month when she came to town. Said she was reconciling with Richard.' Her voice drops to a horrified whisper. 'But he swore to me he never saw her.' The office fan clicks ominously as it slows, the shadows stretching longer across the peeling wallpaper. Somewhere below, the bakery doorbell jingles.

You're reaching for your .38 when the lights flicker. The bulb overhead pops with a shower of sparks, plunging the room into near darkness. From the hallway comes the unmistakable creak of a floorboard under careful weight. The custard filling oozes over the desk like molten gold, the brass key now burning a hole in your pocket.