Grace Thompson had thought long and hard before taking the steps necessary to walk into the Crimson Towers. The modern, hard lines that defined the building screamed: DON’T ENTER WITHOUT A PERFECTLY MODERN, UPSCALE ATTITUDE AND MATCHING WARDROBE. Grace thought the name of the building was interesting: Crimson Towers. It had a crimson-colored trimmed edge that circled the top, which contrasted quite smartly with the glass windows and grays of the main edifice. Grace always thought the “Scarlet” Towers to be a better fit, as a symbol of the dishonesty that helped build the rigid structure. Although most people might find the old brownstone buildings to be a magnificent choice of home in the city of Boston, the man she was now going to see had the tastes for new, modern, and unstained. Grace couldn’t help think that he was trying to sanitize the dirty hands that allowed him such luxury.
Although she walked slowly through the lobby, she was definite in her decision and carried herself with dignity and honor. Stepping onto the elevator, she turned and pushed the button marked Penthouse Suite with her worn and tattered glove. As the elevator ascended, Grace remembered how she had been dubbed the fool by the man she thought had been her soul mate and best friend so long ago. Then smiled at the contrast between this immaculate and pristine architecture and décor, and the man she was about to murder.