She ignored it. On screen, the characters were crossing a line—passion curdling into greed. The heat in the movie was palpable, almost visible. She felt her own skin prickling, not from the temperature but from the tension. The way he looked at her. The way she whispered, "You're not too smart, are you? I like that in a man."

When she turned back, the TV had unmuted itself. On screen, the detective was saying, "No such thing as a perfect crime."

And then a knock at the door. Three soft taps.

No answer.

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