He smiled politely.
“Ms. Alden is expecting your arrival.”
Lorraine blinked.
“Oh.”
“Wonderful.”
“Which apartment is she renting?”
Mr. Callahan looked genuinely puzzled.
“Renting?”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid there’s been some misunderstanding.”
He stepped around the concierge desk.
“Ms. Alden owns her residence.”
A strange silence spread across the lobby.
Lorraine laughed once.
A short, uncertain laugh.
“Well…”
“I suppose that’s nice.”
She recovered quickly.
“What floor?”
Instead of answering, Mr. Callahan gestured toward an elevator separated from the others by a marble hallway.
It wasn’t marked with floor numbers.
There was no public call button.
Only a sleek glass entrance requiring both key-card access and biometric authorization.
One cousin whispered,
“Private elevator?”
Another frowned.
“I thought only penthouses had those.”
Mr. Callahan held the door open.
“This elevator provides direct access.”
Lorraine hesitated.
Then followed him inside.
The rest squeezed in after her.
As the doors closed, several relatives exchanged confused looks.
The elevator moved upward.
Smoothly.
Silently.
Ten floors.
Twenty.
Thirty.
One uncle glanced at the display.
“She’s pretty high up.”
No one answered.
Forty floors.
Fifty.
Someone stopped smiling.
Sixty.
The woman holding the folding chair slowly lowered it to the floor.
Even she seemed to realize something wasn’t making sense anymore.
Sixty-five.
Sixty-seven.
Sixty-nine.
No one spoke.
Not one word.
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