After I dressed, I poured another glass of wine and set to work on the chicken Parmesan—pounded the chicken breasts, coated them with flour, eggs, and bread crumbs, before adding tomato sauce and cheese. The woman who cooked in this kitchen was a remarkable person. If she wasn’t remarkable to start off with, the time spent in this particular setting would alter her intrinsically. We humans evolve to fit our surroundings.

I placed the copper baking dish in the oven. As I was refilling my wineglass … I heard something in the backyard. It was concerning. The downstairs tenant, if one existed, was not home. Who was in the backyard? The Straubs would definitely appreciate my checking on the situation.

I exited out the bifold doors and walked down the spiral staircase. “Hello!” I called out. A leafless cherry tree, dramatically lit, stood in the center of the yard surrounded by brown grass. Outside the garden apartment’s back door was a small patio with two chairs and a side table. The downstairs resident was likely restricted to the patio. Amelia and Fritz wouldn’t want to socialize or share space with a tenant. Would they?

I smelled something unusual. The Straubs would want me to check on a gas leak. They would be grateful for my conscientiousness. I knocked on the back door. “Hello!” Inside, the lights were still out, as they were when I arrived. I knocked again. No one answered.

I tried one of the extra keys, then the second extra key. Seconds later I was inside, standing in the open kitchen. I switched on the lights.

The apartment looked exactly as I’d hoped—as if it had been designed to conform to my tastes, with every architectural detail conceived and executed flawlessly. It was breathtaking.

Amelia (I assumed it was Amelia) had chosen more vivid colors for the garden apartment, such as smoky green in the living room and grayish purple in the hallway. I walked from one end of the apartment to the other. “Hello,” I said loudly. If someone happened to be in, I would explain that I had smelled gas and was checking to make certain all was well.

The apartment had one large bedroom near the front entrance. A crisp white duvet cover appeared comparable to the linens in the master bedroom.

Two framed photos rested on the bedside table: A group of twentysomething women who looked to be on vacation in the Bahamas. A young homely woman and an older couple, maybe the woman’s parents. Perhaps the homely woman lived here and rented the apartment. I wondered what she paid. I wondered what kind of work she did. I wondered if she was fucking Fritz. I opened her closet and saw several suits. Maybe a lawyer? Maybe finance? I examined her scant collection of imitation jewelry. She was meticulous. It takes one to know one. In that respect, she was an ideal tenant.