The next morning, Ririko pushed open her bedroom door, still bleary-eyed, and froze.
Her home had been completely transformed.
The clothes that had been piled on the sofa armrests were gone, the magazines and empty cups had been cleared off the coffee table, and the tower of packages beside the TV stand had vanished without a trace.
The whole place looked more than twice as spacious. She could even make out the pattern along the edge of the rug-the first time since moving in that she had noticed it had a pattern.
The door to the spare bedroom at the end of the hall, which she had used to store things, stood open. The bed had been made, the clutter cleared out of the cabinet, and even the windows had been cleaned.
She stared for two seconds, closed her door, then opened it again.
Once she was sure she wasn't dreaming, she shouted toward the living room, "Victor!"
Victor emerged from the kitchen.
He had changed into a black suit, his tie perfectly straight, accentuating his tall, lean frame and hiding all his menace beneath its elegance.
He carried two plates, each holding fried eggs on toast and a salmon fillet lightly roasted to a golden brown. As he walked, he said flatly:
"Hurry up and eat breakfast. We need to leave for the funeral."
He set the plates on the dining table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
Standing in the middle of the living room in her pajamas, Ririko swept her gaze from the spotless kitchen counter to the bookshelf in the corner, where the books had been neatly rearranged.
She planted her hands on her hips and asked warily, "Did you throw all my stuff away?"
Victor was bringing a forkful of fried egg to his