The sound of Adriana's doorbell was a low chime, two close notes dancing in wobbly interference around each other.

His heart was beating in his throat. Pushing that button had been a spur-of-the-moment decision.

Then a thought struck him—she might think him to be the murderer, seeking out his next kill.

Undo!

But life had no undo. The button had been pushed, and it could not be un-pushed now.

There was a noise from behind the door as if someone were touching it. The light emanating from the spy hole flickered. Art rearranged his face into what he hoped to be a friendly smile devoid of any murderous intent.

The door opened a crack, wide enough to reveal Adriana's face.

"Good evening," Art said.

"Hey, Art." Her words hovered between a question and a greeting. She was nearly as tall as he, and her eyes searched his face.

"I just wanted to check if you're okay..." He gulped, sought for words, and found some, "...or if they've arrested you."

She chuckled and opened the door all the way. "No. They let me go... on probation." She was grinning now.

Art laughed. "Good. I'm out on bail." He doubted that this exchange made any legal sense, but it still felt good.

"Er..." She hesitated. "Can I offer you some coffee?"

"I'm not really into coffee in the evening..." Strong coffee after 4 p.m. tended to interfere with his sleeping.

"I also have tea, herbal tea. All sorts..." She took a step back and made a gesture inviting him in.

"Yeah, tea would be fine, thanks."

"So, do come in, please. Just ignore the mess in here."

His eyes searched for the mess, but all they found was a tidy hallway in cheerful tones of beige and pink. He stepped inside, and she closed the door behind him. She took a solitary wrought-iron coat hanger from a solitary wrought-iron hook on the wall. He shrugged out of his jacket and gave it to her.

A flowery scent and a trace of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air.

Lovely lavender fighting foul fags.

"You can leave your shoes there." She pointed at a small, brown plastic tray positioned behind the door. "I'll get you a pair of slippers."

Art obliged. Adriana produced two gaudy, giant-sized felt slippers from a small cupboard.

Then she led him into her kitchen. Slippered Art shuffled along behind her. Art's eyes alighted on her feet, expecting to see slippers there, too, but she wore thick, blue-red knitted socks, strangely incongruous with her knee-length white skirt and stockinged legs.

She was almost as tall as he was, and definitely less skinny than the waitress but not fat.

The tiny kitchen was crowded with two chairs, a table covered with an ecru tablecloth, and a row of modern appliances.

A plate holding crumbs of something and a fork were set on the table. She took hold of them. "As I said, it's a mess." She opened a tiny dishwasher and stowed them away.

"I don't see any mess here."

In reply, she just smiled. "Is rooibos okay with you?"

"Rear-bus?" Art didn't know what she was talking about.

She laughed. "Rooibos. It's a tea. Don't you know it?"

He shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Maybe by a different name?"

She shrugged. "It's South African."

"Sounds interesting. I'll try."

She placed a teacup under the water spout of an elaborate coffee machine—a miniature refinery, all polished tubes, gauges, and mysterious knobs—and pressed a button. The thing awoke with a vicious hiss and then started sputtering water into the cup. She retrieved the teabags from a wall cabinet.

The tea was reddish-brown, its aroma rich and earthy, carrying a hint of vanilla.

"So, how did it go, your interview?" Adriana had lost her bun and chopsticks—her hair was hanging loose, reaching her shoulders in soft waves. It made her look less severe. Warmer.

"Uneventful." He shrugged. "I didn't have much to tell them. And yours?"

"Argh, I don't think I was able to help them. But..." She raised her eyebrows and took a gulp from her cup. Then she pointed a tiny spoon at his nose. "...they've asked me about you. They wanted to know if I've noticed anything special, out of the ordinary." She grinned.

"And...?"

"Well... to be honest..." She used the spoon to salvage the teabag from the depths of the cup and to transfer it to the saucer, where it sat like a tired, soaked toad.

"Yes?"

"Nothing." She still grinned. "I told them I've noticed nothing unusual about you. I mean, we haven't seen much of each other, have we? But, so far, you didn't strike me as... a killer."

"Phew, I'm relieved to hear that."

"Have they asked you about me, too?" Her eyes searched his face—they were blue-green.

"Not in particular." Art tried to remember the details of his interview. "They just asked me to tell them about the neighbors. So I went through them, one by one. When it was your turn, I... didn't even know your last name."

"Costello." She smiled.

"I know now. Then I told them what I knew about you." He took his time to fish out his own teabag and deposited it on his saucer. It squatted there like a second soaked toad to sullenly watch its sibling across the table. Then he took another sip and noted that his cup was already half-empty.

"So, what have you told them about me?" She leaned forward, and her smile revealed a set of regular, perfectly white teeth. "Was there anything worth telling them?"

"Now you're curious, aren't you?" Art enjoyed the conversation.

"Of course I'm curious." Her smile disappeared, taking her bleached incisors with it. She tilted her head and watched him through slitted eyes. "So, spill the beans."

"I told them that you are..." He slitted his eyes back at her. "...working at a radio station. And, when I did that, they became all serious. And that lady... Ms. Shrimp—"

"Shellfish." She chuckled.

"Yeah... right." He nodded. "Shellfish started typing away on that laptop of hers, like crazy."

"So, you've squealed on me. Told them I'm an archivist at a radio station... I'm sure this has made me their primary suspect." Her eyes were still mere slits.

"Yeah, I think so. You see, there's so little happening in this country... I guess they believe your radio station was tired of reporting only fake news all the time, and you've tried to generate some real news."

She cradled her cup in her hands and shrugged. "You're right, I confess. It's called reality radio—news so fresh the body is still warm."

Art couldn't help laughing.

"Sorry, that was tasteless." She blushed.

He shook his head. "No problem. This day has weirded me out, too. I can't be held responsible for what I say."

"Yeah, it has been like something that can't be happening." She grinned, then drained her cup in one go. Her face became serious again. "But, honestly now... Do you think that Inspector Savage has a lead?"

"I don't know." He shrugged again. "I guess he wouldn't tell me if he had, would he?"

"No, of course not." She shook her head. "But didn't he ask specific questions about anyone?"

Art tried to remember anything like that. "No, I don't think he did."

A series of small, framed pictures were arranged on the wall beside the table, placed equidistantly in a simple symmetry along a perfect row. Drawings in black ink on cream-colored paper held in dark, wooden framelets. A bird, a stylized heart, a girl's face, a key.

The key. Jake.

"Do you know Jake, Mrs. Knooch's nephew?" he asked.

Her smile disappeared. "Er, yes, I've seen him. I think he was visiting his aunt regularly, bringing her groceries."

"He..." Art hesitated but could not stop himself. "He has a key to the house."

"Really? I didn't know that." She got up to place her cup and saucer in the dishwasher. "Have you told Inspector Savage about that?"

"Yeah. But he already knew. Probably from Janitor Meier."

She held out her hand, and he gave her his dishes.

"I'm sure they'll check him out." She closed the dishwasher and leaned against it, breathing out, chewing her lip, shoulders sagging. She looked tired.

Time to leave.

"Yes, Savage said they're planning to do that, to check on Jake." He glanced at his watch. It was after 8 p.m. "I... think I should be going now."

She smiled at him. "Well... thanks for looking in. It has been good to talk to somebody about... all of this. It has been such a weird day." She made for the hallway.

Art followed, still shuffling in an attempt to keep his oversized slippers on his feet.

"You know, I've called Claudio," she said as he was putting on his shoes. "I've told him all about this. He thinks the police are unlikely to believe it was one of us, or they wouldn't have let us go."

"Claudio?" Art hated it when people mentioned the names of others as if they expected him to know them—such an unclear and vague way of communicating.

"You don't know him. He's a guy from the radio... a friend, you see." She smiled.

"I see." Art didn't really see, but he thought it improper to ask for details, even though her remark had raised his curiosity.

She handed him his coat and opened the door. "Well, thanks again." She held out her hand.

He shook it. It was still warm from the tea. "Have a good night."

"Same to you."

As he reached the landing of his apartment, his eyes were drawn to Mrs. Knooch's door. Two red-white ribbons, adorned with repetitive uppercase POLICE lettering, crossed it in a large, carelessly asymmetric X. Behind them, there were strange black smudges on the wood of the frame and on the door itself.

An untidy, crossed-out gateway to the realm of the dead.