Chapter 3 - The Photographer at the Door
At 7:45 AM, the autumn sun broke through the gray canopy over the city in a cold, brilliant blaze of amber and gold.
I stood on the opposite sidewalk of Avenida de la Palmera, wearing a tailored charcoal wool coat, leather gloves, and dark sunglasses, holding a paper cup of black espresso. Beside me stood Paola, holding an aluminum clipboard, accompanied by Mateo, a six-foot-two architectural photographer carrying a heavy tripod and two wide-angle professional camera bodies.
"The building manager confirmed the access," Paola said, checking her phone. "The doorman knows we're coming up. He has a copy of your title deed from the land registry. Andrés tried to tell him last week that he was the owner, but old Don Manuel has worked this door for twenty years. He remembers when your father signed the purchase agreement."
"Let's go," I said.
We crossed the street, the morning traffic rumbling past on the avenue.
Inside the brass-trimmed lobby, Don Manuel stood behind his desk, wearing his crisp green uniform. When he saw me, his weathered face creased into a warm, respectful smile.
"Good morning, Doña Lucía," he said, touching the brim of his cap. "I have the service elevator keyed for the fifth floor. Your... guests haven't come down this morning. The young man’s delivery food arrived at midnight, but nobody has left."
"Thank you, Manuel," I said, sliding an envelope across the marble counter. "If anyone attempts to remove large furniture or artwork today, please notify the police immediately. The apartment is officially under sale review."
The service elevator rose with a low, hydraulic purr.
When the doors slid open on the fifth floor, the hallway smelled faintly of burned garlic and wet wool.
My keys slid into the top deadbolt with an effortless, familiar click. The secondary lock—the heavy brass cylinder my father had installed himself—turned smoothly.
I pushed the door open.
The apartment was dark, the blinds drawn shut against the morning sun.
In the living room, the scene looked like an abandoned campsite. Diego’s dirty running shoes lay in the middle of the parquet floor; two empty pizza boxes were balanced precariously on my linen armchair; and the television was still humming on mute, casting a pale, ghostly light across the ceiling.
From the master bedroom, heavy, synchronized snoring echoed down the hallway.
Paola looked at the pizza boxes, then looked at me, her eyebrows arching in utter disgust. "They live like this? While you're working sixty hours a week?"
"They live like this because nobody ever asked them to pay for the cleaning," I whispered.
Mateo set his tripod down on the hardwood floor with a sharp, echoing CLACK.
The sound cut through the apartment like a gunshot.
From the back bedroom, the snoring ceased instantly.
A moment later, the bedroom door flew open with a violent shudder.
Andrés stumbled into the hallway, wearing gray flannel sweatpants and an inside-out t-shirt, his hair wild and uncombed, his eyes bloodshot and swollen from sleep.
"What the hell is that noise?!" he roared, his voice thick with morning anger. "Diego, did you order more packages?!"
Then he stopped dead in the entryway.
His gaze locked onto me.
Then his eyes drifted to Paola, standing with her commercial listing agreements, and finally to Mateo, who was currently attaching a forty-millimeter tilt-shift lens to his camera body, aiming it directly down the central corridor toward the dining room.
"Lucía...?" Andrés stammered, the sleep evaporating from his face in an instant of sheer, paralyzed bewilderment. "What... what is this? Who are these people?"
I took off my leather gloves, folding them neatly over my forearm.
"Good morning, Andrés," I said, my voice smooth, quiet, and completely devoid of inflection. "This is Paola, my commercial broker. And this is Mateo, her architectural photographer."
May you like
I gestured toward the living room:
"Please move your sweatpants off the sofa. They have forty-five minutes to photograph the primary living spaces before the open-house listing goes live on the national portal."
