221b Baker Street Flat 소설 & 이야기

ZAYDEN It was seven twenty in the evening when the taxi dropped me before the luxury suburban building that was supposed to be home but had felt like a prison for the longest time. Gated community. Two-storey grey building. Manicured lawn. Outdoor backyard kitchen I never seemed to remember ever being used. I exhaled and made my way toward it, fighting the exhaustion that had sunk into my muscles and refused to let go. Before I could punch in the door code, the knob turned. Someone opened it from the inside. My hand froze mid-air, and I looked up at her. Mrs. Baker.

"Yea... Just sounds familiar. Can you get me the address of someone, a Detective Binns, I think he..." "Found it. West Sunny Bay, apartment 205, five other policemen are living on the building so... Be careful." "I will... I am sure they aren't home anyway... Not with the chaos you just caused," I smiled glancing up at the sign, East Sunny bay. His home is halfway across the city and I have to get there, "Well... I mean, it was quite an uproar... The city needed a wake-up call anyway,"

"Mm… I… second floor… door twenty-three…" Useless. I swore and fumbled out my phone. Cheryl picked up on the second ring. "Sir?" "Ethan's address. Now." A pause. "Why do you need that?" "It's an emergency," I growled. My knuckles were bunched against the wheel. Another pause. Then she softened her voice. "Okay. He lives on 15th, old Maplewood Apartments. Unit 23B, second floor." "Good." I hung up before she could ask anything else and floored the gas.

The lady on the phone asked. Breanna peered through her room window, lifting the curtain to see. "Breanna!." She heard him shout, Breanna dropped the cloth like it was on fire. "I'm in my room, but he's right outside my window, I noticed a pocket knife in his hand." She answered. "Your address?." "2114 on Maddison street, flat four close to Charleston University campus." "Breanna!, my love it doesn't have to be like this?." He banged on her front door.

Shortly, the night shift building manager and two security guards appeared. Lochlan pointed at Cary, who was still glued to me. ‘This man doesn’t live here. Remove him.’ The property manager, a portly, gentle-looking man, looked hesitant. ‘One moment, Mr Hastings, let me just check.’ He consulted his tablet. His expression turned awkward. ‘I’m sorry, sir. But Mr Grant is the owner of the flat on the twentieth floor.’ What. Cary had bought a flat on the twentieth floor?

"Anything else." She thought about the Glasgow flat she'd almost moved to. The custody schedule she'd almost filed. "No," she said. "That's enough to start." She called the estate agent from the car. Second viewing booked: Saturday, 10 AM, Napier Road. Four-bed. Garden with direct kitchen access. Close to Theron's bookshop. She texted Lewis the confirmation. He replied immediately: I'll clear my diary. Then, four minutes later, a second message. She read it twice before calling him.

I picked it up. UNKNOWN NUMBER: We know where you are. A chill ran through me. Another message came before I could recover. UNKNOWN NUMBER: Your house is the cream bungalow by the edge of St. Andrew’s Crescent, number 14. Brown gate. Three flower pots by the entrance. Two CCTV cameras. One faulty.

“That might be a coincidence.” “Yes,” he said. “It might.” He said it the way he said things he didn’t entirely believe. I looked at the address on my phone. “Let’s go,” I said. The address was a house on Grantchester Street. A Victorian terrace. Narrow, well-kept, Window boxes with winter plants, a door painted dark green. A brass knocker that had been polished recently. We stood outside it for a moment. “Ready?” Gabriel said. “Same answer as Room 14,”

Sophie's flat is on the second floor of a building in East London that is warm and slightly chaotic in the specific way of a home that belongs to a single mother of a three year old... shoes by the door and drawings on the fridge and a general cheerful disorder that feels more alive than tidy. Sophie opens the door and looks at me with the specific expression of a woman who has thought about this moment and is not entirely sure how to be in it. "Camille," she says.

Taylor, on the other hand, devours his burger, his appetite clearly unaffected, I think a little sourly to myself. “So, Abby, what I wanted to say before”—I keep silent this time, waiting for Taylor to continue—“is that it has come up through the grapevine via one of my property sources here in Brighton that the shop next door to Bread, plus the flat above it, is coming up for sale.”