Russell's pen tip froze, but Holly's story continued.
"That feeling… do you understand? It's like… it's like when you leave your home…
someone crawls into your bed and uses your residual warmth to warm their body.
And once they're warm enough, they turn around and use their body heat to warm the bed for you…"
"Can you understand what that feels like…?"
Holly's voice cut off abruptly.
She couldn't go on. The only sounds left were suppressed, broken whimpers.
Listening to her description, Russell felt goosebumps rise all over his arms.
That was… pretty damn perverse.
He instinctively looked at Charlotte.
Charlotte had stood up from the sofa. There was no laziness left in her movements.
In her once-listless gray-blue eyes, something like fire seemed to be burning.
"Now this is interesting…" she murmured.
"Congratulations, Ms. David. You've successfully made me interested in this so-called ghost."
"I'll take the case."
She paused, then turned her gaze to Russell.
"Watson."
"Hm?" Russell lifted a brow and looked at her.
"You'll accompany Ms. David to her home. Time for you to be useful."
"Not going," Russell refused without thinking.
"Now isn't the time for childish sulking. Can't you see this poor woman is being haunted by some perverted ghost?" Charlotte said.
"Time for you to show a little chivalry."
"To hell with chivalry. That crap got thrown out thousands of years ago." Russell clicked his tongue. "Either way, don't think you're sending me over there alone."
As he spoke, he strode past Charlotte and Holly and went straight into Charlotte's room.
Not long after, Russell came back out with a coat in hand. Under Charlotte's baffled stare, he tossed it onto her.
"Get dressed," he said, pointing at the coat, then pointing at the door.
"Then we're leaving."
·
·
Two minutes later, the three of them were in a carriage headed for Holly's home.
Russell and Charlotte sat on one side. Holly sat opposite them, nervously hooking her fingers together, stealing glances at the girl across from her who looked as though she were resting with her eyes closed.
"Ms. David," Russell said, deciding to break the suffocating silence.
"Do you mind if I ask what you do for work?"
"Ah…" Holly blinked, then recovered. "I work at a fashion design studio. I'm a designer."
"Single?"
"Yes… I had a relationship before, but it ended." Holly hesitated, then added firmly, "But it's definitely not him."
"Why?" Russell asked.
"Because he dumped me," Holly said awkwardly. "And he's never tried to get back together."
"Then during this time, has anyone else pursued you? Or shown romantic interest?" Russell pressed, trying an emotional angle.
"Uh… not really." Holly shook her head.
"I get along well with people at the studio. There are men too, but… we're not at that level."
"Alright." Russell nodded and leaned back against the cushion, running the information through his mind at speed.
Missing coffee cups. Perfume usage. Watered plants. Rearranged bookshelf. And a warm bed…
The intruder hadn't stolen valuables, which suggested it wasn't theft. And it didn't feel like intimidation, either.
It felt more like… something pathological.
There was no malice in the "ghost's" behavior—only pure pathology.
A sick, twisted kind of infatuation.
"Then what about work?" Russell switched angles again.
"At the studio, have you made enemies? Or is there someone who particularly admires your talent?"
"Enemies… probably not." Holly thought carefully.
"Everyone's trying to design better clothing. Sometimes we disagree on ideas, but not to the point of… this."
"As for people who admire my talent…" She gave a wry smile.
"Every designer thinks they're Van Gogh or Monet—convinced no one understands their art."
"In our line of work, jealousy is far more common than appreciation."
"That's fair," Russell said noncommittally.
They'd ruled out coworkers, the ex, and potential suitors—so the range felt narrower, and yet somehow wider at the same time.
Before they realized it, the carriage came to a stop.
They had arrived.
Holly's apartment was a typical London red-brick building—clearly old, but fairly well maintained.
"I live on the third floor. It's a one-bedroom," Holly explained as she led them toward the entrance.
"Ms. David," Charlotte spoke at last, having stayed silent the entire ride.
"Has there been construction nearby recently? Or any neighbors doing major renovations?"
"Hm?" Holly blinked, startled by the abrupt question, but answered anyway.
"No. Most people living here are older, and they don't like noise."
"That's why I moved here. I needed somewhere quiet enough to think."
"I see." Charlotte nodded. "Lead the way."
"Y-yes."
Holly unlocked the main door and guided them inside.
Her flat on the third floor was small but cozy: one room serving as both bedroom and study, a living room, and a separate bathroom.
The place was full of a designer's careful touch—every piece of furniture and every decorative item placed just right, with a faint scent of aromatherapy lingering in the air.
But beneath that warmth and elegance, something felt subtly off.
"This is my home," Holly said tensely.
Charlotte entered without a word, her eyes passing over the tasteful décor as she swept the space in a rapid scan.
Meanwhile, driven by a thief's instinct, Russell began checking every possible entry point—every vulnerability.
The lock, for instance.
Just as Holly had said, it was brand new, with no signs of tampering.
He moved to the window and checked the latch. Also intact.
Russell straightened, frowning slightly.
Occupational habit: he automatically ran through every plausible method of intrusion.
Discarding the ones that would leave obvious traces, he eliminated the remaining possibilities one by one in his head.
It was too clean.
Clean as if no one had ever been here.
That itself was unnatural.
Unless this "ghost" outclassed him by a wide margin in stealth and sleight of hand, Russell should have been able to find something.
And besides—if someone was really that skilled, why would they waste it hiding in someone's home like some creep?
Wasn't that… pathetically unambitious?
On the other side of the room, Charlotte walked to the vanity and lifted the perfume bottle.
"This one?" she asked.
"Yes." Holly stepped forward and took it from Charlotte.
"I bought it last week. I spray a little every time I go out—like this—"
She demonstrated right in front of Charlotte, spritzing a small amount. A soft fragrance immediately spread through the air.
"That wasn't much," Charlotte said, eyes fixed on the bottle.
"And yet it's already at least one-third gone."
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