THE next day was Saturday. The Oswald mansion was as usual quiet except for the faint clinking of a spoon against a porcelain cup. Oswald sat in the spacious living room, casually sipping his dark coffee, a hint of thoughtfulness in his usually cold eyes. The hired cook for the day stood respectfully beside him, awaiting his verdict as Oswald asked a few questions about the breakfast arrangement.

Oswald tapped his phone once, then again, scrolling without much interest, his mind clearly distracted. The cook, trying not to fidget, answered as best he could, but Oswald’s attention seemed elsewhere.

Then came the gentle, descending sound of heels against marble.

Orlanda....