"I'm so sorry," I said, extending my hand.
She took it. Her grip was surprisingly firm for someone who had just been knocked down by a box. She rose smoothly, brushing dust from her clothes with quick, precise motions, the kind of practiced elegance that came from years of being watched. The sunglasses had slipped down her nose. She pushed them back up with one finger, and in that half-second I caught sharp, dark eyes underneath, assessing me in return.
She reached for the box. I had it before she could, lifting it easily.
"I've got it. Where does it go?"
She looked at me over the rim of her sunglasses, the expression of someone who had been assessed and was now doing the same.
"Third floor," she said.
"Going up anyway," I said, which was a lie dressed as convenience.
I started up the stairs. She followed behind me, footsteps light. We reached the third floor landing. She passed me, key already in hand, and opened the door. I carried the box inside.
