His fist slammed against the door three times. Behind the couch, the muffled noises told me Scott was fighting a fit of giggles.
“Come on, you guys, I know you are in there”, Mr. Finstock shouted, knocking on the door three more times.
His hand was so heavy it almost broke the thing off its handles – which wouldn’t have been that good for us, particularly. “I saw you running upstairs twenty seconds ago!”
I wouldn’t call it twenty seconds – we did spring four flights of stairs the moment we spotted his bald head coming out of the storage closet,
but it took almost an entire minute to get from the entrance hall to our apartment.
Not that it was relevant to the conversation, anyway.
“You know I’ll just keep coming back, right?” he said, slightly calmer but still terrifyingly loud. “It’s been three months, you two can’t avoid me forever.”
“We can try”, I hear Scott whisper. Me, crunched behind the armchair? I just try to remain as quiet as I can, hoping that Mr.
Finstock won’t remember he has a master-key that can unlock that door in no time.
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