the cleaner . Even when I returned from work before the dusty clouds could dim and frame the New York skyline , I never caught her . I went down to the receptionist and rang the golden bell : “ Ding !”. A frail looking woman walked out of the back room dressed in a vibrant purple that was somehow as depressing as the deep mauve carpet I was used to . “ Hello dear ,” the receptionist said . “ Hi . I would like to make a complaint about the new cleaner on level 2 . She seems to be running me a bath every day before I come back from work ,” I said . “ What cleaner ? We haven ’ t had a cleaner for weeks ,” she added . My face dropped - the old receptionist clearly read my expression . “ Would you like a wine gum , dear ?”. I didn ’ t take the wine gum .
I returned to my apartment , filled with fear . As I approached the large wooden door , I saw the notes that I had left over the last few weeks laid by my mat , and underneath lay a newspaper article . It was old and rumpled from the 1970s - it had that signature time mark from about 30 years ago and on the front page it read :
14th AVE NEW YORK WOMAN MURDERED IN BATH IN APARTMENT NO . 3 CHILTMORE BLOCK .
Salma Zidan
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