Four years ago, a little barracks-type cabin appeared on the side the road. It billed itself as Transformations, apparently a beauty salon, but Fiorella never read any advertisements for it, never saw any cars there, and never heard anyone talking about it. In fact, your fiction-writing Fio assured her family that Transformations was a front for criminal activity--money laundering, human trafficking, drug distribution, or the like--and would soon be raided by our local gendarmes..
But the raid never occurred. Nothing else ever happened with the little building either, except that the cheerful pink bushes planted around it died, one by one. Now Transformations is for sale.
But there don't seem to be any takers.