FORTY

LATER THAT day as the setting sun bathed the driveway in a warm, golden glow, Brad pulled up and was immediately struck by the sight of Doris' shiny new car—a sleek and stylish number that had clearly been through the wringer. A deep gash marred the otherwise pristine paint job as if the vehicle had been slashed by some vengeful wild feline with claws of steel.

Perplexed, Brad jumped out of his car and approached the damaged vehicle, running his hand along the jagged edge of the gash.

"Whoa!" He muttered under his breath. "What in the world happened to her car?"

He furrowed his brow as he tried to imagine what could have caused such a scar—a hit-and-run, a run-in with a mailbox, or perhaps even a very disgruntled rival.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, he decided to save the sleuthing for later. For now, he had more pressing matters to deal with. Instead of walking into the main building, he made it straight for Doris' apartment and pushed the doorbell.

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