ROXANNE

Monday, July 19 - 5:47 PM

How does one commit a murder without a murder weapon? The question plagues my mind even after hours of trying to push the thought from my mind. After clearing the entire hotel room of the remnants of last night's deadly tussle that I still can't recall, Agatha and I have yet to come across a gun. The gun. The one that took a certain someone's life just like that.

It must be here somewhere. It has to be, because thinking about the alternative is making my headache triple in intensity.

My palms press into the wooden surface of the vanity table located in the corner of the room, the mirror in front of me not only showing me my worried face, but also the now empty bed in the background.

The covers are made, the pillows in perfect position. It almost succeeds in beckoning me over, willing my fatigued body to take a ten-minute nap— or ten-hour, same difference. But I can't. Not when a dead body was laying lifeless there just this morning. Mystery Milf might be relocated into the deepest depths of the closet, but I could still picture her bloody form perfectly if I stare at the mattress long enough.

"Good thinking," Agatha said, clapping me on the back after finding a waterproof mattress protector installed under the blood-spoilt bedsheet she had just pulled up and wrapped around the corpse. Rigor mortis has already set in so we were struggling to fit her into the closet. I didn't put it there though. Every bed in the hotel must've had those already.

I put the last pin in my hair, focusing my gaze on myself instead of behind me. I'm careful not to aggravate my stitches too much while thinking about the woman who sewed them there.

No last name, Agatha, to me, is an enigma. Agatha, with the suaveness and the acting skills. Agatha, with the quick thinking and the shady past and the nursing me back to health and the morally gray speech. Agatha, with the flowing red hair and the distracting lips and the leather jacket.

Agatha, Agatha, Agatha.

Escaping the deja vu-ish memory of holding her up against the wall, feeling her chest graze mine as her breathing grew heavier and heavier, is a task I have yet to accomplish. The way her pupils seem to expand and darken, glazing over as if she were playing back a memory of her own. The way an overpowering instinct to replace my hand on her mouth with my own almost took over. The way I unconsciously press just a little bit closer to feel her— Ring!

I startle from my thoughts when a blaring sound echoes around the room, jarring me and worsening my already pounding headache. The ringing is muffled however, like it's coming from underneath something. I follow the sound, trying to pinpoint its location, except it stops before I actually do.

I sigh. Great. That phone is the least of my worries right now though so I don't even bother to continue searching.

Speaking of Agatha, she invited me to have dinner tonight, to talk about the next steps, as she put it. We're supposed to meet at the hotel's restaurant at seven o'clock sharp, the one we passed by the lobby this morning. It looked fancy enough that I couldn't just stroll in in this too casual-looking sundress and sandals without turning heads and earning weird looks. Luckily, deeper under the bed earlier, we found a small luggage that fit all of the clothes from the closet we just emptied to make room for a corpse.

My eyes snag for a second on the tiny notebook I placed amongst my supposed belongings, forcing me to once again think about what kind of shit I got up to before this fateful day. Most of the pieces of this puzzle are missing, and I don't like it one bit.

After managing to put together a decent enough outfit, I trudge out of the suite and make my way to the ground floor with my new best friend— a handy sleeve of ibuprofen tablets. 

~~~

6:52 PM

The hotel lobby is bustling with an early evening buzz as guests rush about to get to their plans for the night. Like myself, most of them are headed towards the five star restaurant for dinner, their respective families and-or significant others already waiting for them inside the romantically low-lit dining area.

Unlike myself, I doubt anyone is there to discuss a murder–clean-up with a stranger.

I take my time walking over here, waiting for the pills I dry-swallowed in the elevator to kick in before I face Agatha and whatever plan she came up with.

Once I make it in front of the restaurant's entrance, I stop for a moment to take a deep breath. Even from where I stand, I could see the back of her head, amber locks braided down her back elegantly. This is it, I can't be having second thoughts now. The woman already helped me tidy up the crime scene for heaven's sake. I might as well go along with her body-dumping proposal too, even if it'll cost me half the contents of my— is it really?— duffel bag.

"Okay," I exhale. A loud scraping sound from the left catches my attention, my head swirling to look. It's the bar. "Here goes nothi—"

~~~

Sunday, July 18 - Unknown PM

I turn down the volume of the podcast I'm listening to as I pull up behind a semi-long line of cars waiting to pass through the valet of the hotel. Stealing a glance out the window, I spot a red BMW a few cars ahead of me. From where I am sitting, I can only catch sight of the driver's arm poking out to hand something to the attendant.

I have no idea why they're taking awfully long, considering the line was moving in a pretty timely manner before that specific car. My watch tells me I still have a few minutes to spare before I become behind on schedule, so that helps ease my annoyance for now.

Finally, the female driver steps out and signals for help with her three suitcases.

When it is my turn to hand over my keys, the previous attendant takes off her cap and hands it to the guy next to her, revealing a neat, tight bun at the nape of her neck, while saying something to her co-worker that I can't quite hear. She then promptly walks back inside without another word.

I observe the exchange curiously for a few seconds, then am greeted by a sheepish smile as the newly appointed valet attendant regards me.

"Hey there, sorry 'bout that. Welcome to the—–"

In this secluded, faraway booth, the lights barely reach us enough for people to see what we're up to. Good, because the way this woman's thighs are slung over mine while she guides my hand over the expanse of her exposed skin, slowly inching it up higher towards her already ridden-up hemline, is not something a passerby would necessarily like to see.

"I don't usually do this…" A voice whispers near my ear, breathy and sultry. "But there's just something about you…"

On the table in front of us sits a vintage looking polaroid camera that hasn't left the woman's grasp all night— well, until now.

A pointy fingernail painted blood red traces a line up the middle of my dress, starting at my stomach to the precarious dip of my silk dress, the finger hooking and tugging lightly to teasingly expose more of my cleavage.

All the while, I can feel a scorching hot glare aimed at my back. Readying a smirk, I turn to look behind me to taunt S—–

My ass lands on the stool the same time my empty glass hits the counter. I raise my right hand to signal the bartender for a top-up, then swivel in my seat to face my right. I am just about to speak when the woman a few chairs over beats me to it.

"Didn't think you had it in you," the redhead in slacks and a crisp white button up chirps. "I watched you watch her all night thinking you'd never work up the nerve to approach her."

"I watched you watch me, watch her, thinking about how long you'd sit here and not make your own move."

Her eyes narrow into slits, lips curling up in a snarl as she ignores my comment and spits, "And where's she now? Scared her away so soon? That checks out."

"Don't worry, she's just touching up her lipstick." I make a point to swipe the edge of my lower lip with my thumb to erase the remnants of the other woman's plum gloss. Her gaze follows my movements, just like I expected, and darkens.

My ego swells even more. She's so easy to work up.

"Aww, no need to be jealous," I coo patronizingly. "I'd do her on the bed, and not against the wall li—"

"Jealous? Who even are you?" She all but hisses in my direction.

"Roxanne Hayes, nice to meet you." I thrust my open hand towards her sardonically. "And you are?"

~~~
7

:03 PM

I jolt back into reality when someone brushes past me to enter the restaurant, knocking me by the shoulder and out of balance. Looking around, I realize I'm still loitering between the bar and the restaurant.

The flash flood of memories suddenly surging in my brain rendered me statuesque for— I look down at my rose gold watch— more than ten minutes. What the fuck. The movie that played out in my head was choppy and confusing, like I skipped large chunks of scenes that made what I just recalled practically useless.

But not entirely though, because while the whole valet thing made no sense and seems unimportant, I can say for sure that the woman in the booth was definitely Mystery Milf, and the one at the bar was Agatha.

That confirms that we really did meet last night. At least she wasn't lying about that. Why we were talking that hostilely to each other, however? That I'm not certain.

Why on earth would I be that much of a bitch to a stranger? Also, what does she really know about the now dead woman?

From inside the restaurant, I spot Agatha twisting back in her seat. Her eyes lock straight into mine, and for the second time tonight, I ponder on whether or not it's a good idea to trust her.

Well, I've got no choice but to simply do. Plus, I have about a thousand new questions and she's the only one who could possibly answer them.

Composing myself, I walk inside to fully seal my fate in her nimble, velvet hands. Fingers crossed I don't regret it.