Astonishment

A letter was slipped under the doormat, and I had the impression it had just been placed there. The envelope was thick and richly decorated. For her mother? I took the letter with curiosity, expecting an invitation. There was no sender's name. It was addressed to Alma, not to her mother. The destination address was written in capital letters. The handwriting was beautiful, tall, and feminine, lying slightly to the right side and the ink was deep blue. I left it on the small table near the entrance, in the corridor, so as not forget it.

I had barely entered, when a known scent permeated my nostrils. I rushed inside, my anger rising gradually. I knew who had come to find her—but then? The letter? I looked at it again without understanding. I sniffed it and I knew he had not touched it. He had passed her house, at least twelve hours before. Yes, long before the passage of the concierge.