Mrs. Joy's apartment and Holly David's place were laid out almost exactly the same—only the décor style was completely different.
The air carried a faint scent of lavender. A few yellowed photographs hung on the wall—Mrs. Joy and her husband, by the look of it.
By the fireplace sat a small table draped with a crocheted lace cloth.
Everything about the place was saturated with the warmth and quiet of an older time.
"Would you like a cup of black tea, dear? I've just brewed some," the old woman called from the kitchen.
"Thank you, Mrs. Joy, but there's no need to trouble yourself. I'll be done quickly," Russell said with a smile, refusing politely as he focused on the task at hand.
"Do you mind if I take a look in the bedroom?"
"Of course—just don't mess up the bed, all right?"
"Understood."
Russell stepped into the bedroom, his gaze immediately settling on the wall that shared the boundary with the bookshelf wall in Holly's apartment.
Unlike Holly's place, the space in front of this wall wasn't occupied by a bookshelf.
Instead, there stood an enormous oak wardrobe—one that looked heavy enough to have its own gravitational pull.
The wardrobe was old, carved with ornate Baroque-style patterns.
Russell walked up, put on a show of tapping the wall, then leaned in to listen to the echo.
"Hm… solid sound. Probably not an issue with a load-bearing wall."
He muttered to himself as he placed a hand on the massive wardrobe and tried to push it.
It didn't budge.
No surprise there.
"What is it, dear? Is there something wrong with that wardrobe?" the elderly woman asked, appearing from the kitchen with a steaming cup of tea in hand.
"Oh, nothing at all, ma'am." Russell straightened, his smile returning.
"I'm just checking whether dampness has caused any gaps between the wall and the furniture."
He accepted the tea, thanked her, then turned his attention back to the wardrobe.
The switch has to be somewhere around here.
His eyes began to comb through the intricate carvings, refusing to let even a single detail slip by.
[Investigation C++] was pushed to its limit.
He stared at the wardrobe long enough to spot the tiniest inconsistency.
On the lower portion of the right-hand door, there was a floral carving—where a normal flower's center should have been.
But that "center" looked slightly more recessed than the surrounding grooves… and just a shade darker.
If you weren't looking closely—or if you didn't have Russell's level of observational precision—you'd never notice it.
Found it.
Russell understood immediately.
But he didn't trigger the mechanism right away.
Instead, he left the bedroom and returned to Mrs. Joy.
"Mrs. Joy—do you mind if I ask you a few slightly… strange questions?"
"Strange questions?" She looked puzzled. "Go ahead, dear. If I can answer…"
"Recently, have you noticed anything… off?" Russell asked.
"Food being used up faster than usual, for example. Or any noises at night?"
At Russell's question, Mrs. Joy's wrinkled face creased with confusion.
She set the steaming cup down on the little table by the fireplace, then slowly lowered herself onto the sofa opposite him.
"Something off…"
She repeated the phrase, as if digging through her memory.
"Well… when you get old, your memory isn't what it used to be," she said with a smile that carried a touch of self-mockery and resignation.
"Sometimes I put down my scissors and then forget where I left them after turning around. And food—well, I haven't paid too much attention."
"What about noises at night?" Russell pressed gently, his tone as warm as if he were chatting with his own grandmother.
"Noises?" Mrs. Joy thought for a moment, then shook her head.
"My hearing isn't very good. Once I fall asleep, I'm like a log—I couldn't hear thunder. Besides, this building has always been quiet."
She paused, as if realizing her answer wasn't very helpful, and added:
"Though… it's not as if nothing strange has happened."
"Oh?" Russell's eyes lit slightly. He pulled a chair over and sat across from her, adopting the posture of someone ready to listen carefully.
"My milk has been spoiling much faster lately," Mrs. Joy said with a frown.
"Every morning the milkman leaves a bottle outside my door. Normally one bottle lasts me two days."
"But recently—I don't know why—it sits for just one day, and the next morning it already tastes… wrong."
"Could it be because the weather's starting to warm up?" Russell suggested, following her lead.
"Perhaps." Mrs. Joy nodded, clearly having thought the same.
"And my biscuits, too—what I keep in the tin in the kitchen. I've been thinking they seem to… disappear faster than they used to."
As she spoke, she shook her head and chuckled softly.
"Honestly, listen to me—old age makes you imagine things."
"Maybe I just got greedy and ate a couple extra pieces, then forgot the next day."
Her voice was light, like she was sharing an inconsequential little anecdote.
Russell smiled along with her, but the amusement in his eyes began to fade.
"Do you live here alone, Mrs. Joy?" he asked casually, as if it were just another harmless question.
"Yes." At that, her gaze dimmed slightly. She picked up a photo frame and gently traced the glass with her fingertip.
In the picture, a handsome man in uniform had his arm around a much younger Mrs. Joy, smiling brightly.
"My husband passed early. And the children all have their own families now, in other cities. They're busy—sometimes they only come back once a year."
Her tone was calm. No complaint—only a kind of acceptance.
"Doesn't it get lonely?" Russell asked.
"You get used to it." She set the frame down, her gentle smile returning.
"Besides, sometimes the orphanage nearby sends a few volunteers. They can be a little noisy, but it's better than silence all the time."
"Volunteers?" Russell raised an eyebrow.
"Yes." Mrs. Joy nodded and continued.
"They're good children. They come once or twice a week, help me clean a bit, chat with me… sometimes they even bring little pastries they've made themselves."
"That sounds wonderful," Russell said sincerely.
Too wonderful.
Who would ever suspect a good child bringing warmth and care to a lonely old woman?
In Russell's mind, the outline of the whole picture was already forming—only the last piece was missing.
He needed to confirm the mechanism.
"Mrs. Joy," he stood, setting down the now-cooled tea on the table.
"I think I've figured out what the issue is. To confirm it, may I go into your bedroom once more?"
"Of course, dear. Go right ahead."
Mrs. Joy nodded kindly.
....
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