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Romy
My hands are covered in blood. I’ve been staring at them so long that it’s starting to congeal under my broken fingernails. Red rivers trickle down the lines of my palms, drip off the heel of my hand, and land on the marble floor with a plink.
Plink, plink, plink.
It’s a lot of blood.
It’s also not mine.
Numbness flows through my veins like a sedative. It keeps me rooted to the bottom of the bed, staring at my hands. Listening to the plinks. But my brain, it’s neurotic. It doesn’t stay calm for long, even at the best of times.
Eventually, it speaks to me.
Do something, goddammit.
A jolt of adrenaline zaps through me, forcing me to feel the panic I should have felt twenty minutes ago. Like I’ve been held underwater too long, and I’m seconds from running out of air. My heart slams against my rib cage, my lungs constrict.
Mak. I need Mak. My eyes dart to the rotary phone on the desk. No, there are a million reasons calling him would be a bad idea—the list starts with the police being able to trace phone calls and ends with the fact I’d have to explain to him that I’d killed a client with my bare hands.
I have to deal with this myself.
Think, Romy, think.
Right.
Grinding my back molars, I force myself to look at the body. Because that’s what he is now: a body. Not a man with a heartbeat and a lifetime’s worth of memories and a family that will miss him. He’s a lump of flesh staining the Egyptian cotton sheets with his blood.
I’m five-foot-three and weigh one-hundred-and-twenty pounds soaking wet. I can’t remove his body from the room, so I’ll have to remove myself. Yes, I’ll get out of here and skip town. Run away before anyone knows what to look for.
Without thinking twice, I’m crossing the space between the body and the door. Then I fling it open and step outside. I look up and down the hall. Empty. Something glints out of the top-right corner of my eye. A camera, its red eye blinking at me.
“Fuck!”
I stumble back into the suite and slam the door behind me, pressing my back against the cold oak panels.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Forgetting my hands are bloodied, I wind them into my hair, tugging at the strands, hoping the stabbing pain will bring me back to reality. I’m finding it very fucking hard to think straight. What the hell was I doing, exposing myself—naked and covered in blood—to a network of cameras that covers this entire hotel? What did I think I was going to do? Stroll down to the lobby, past the doorman, and hop into a yellow cab, leaving a path of red footprints in my wake?
“Come on, you’re better than this,” I growl to myself, pushing off the door and stomping back into the bedroom.
I’m pacing along the foot of the bed—up, down, up, down—creating a crimson ravine laced with the outline of my feet.
Footprints. Fingerprints. Jesus Christ, my DNA is everywhere. Panic tightens its grip around my throat, clutching my airways so tight that my lips are tingling.
I have to disappear in every way. That starts with removing any trace that I was here in the first place. With a half-formed plan lingering in the air, I fling open every oak-clad cupboard, drawer, and dresser, looking for cleaning supplies. Under the sink. In the clothes closet. There’s nothing but fancy toiletries and extra bedding. Of course they don’t have industrial-grade bleach just lying around. We’re in the most prestigious hotel in New York, not a Motel 6.
Come on, Romy. New plan.
As I continue to scan the room, my eyes land on the bedside table. The one with the half-smoked Cuban resting in an ashtray next to a bottle of rum. The light bulb above my head burns brighter than the fire I’m about to create.
Of course. I’ll burn this room down, let the body and the blood and my sins go up in flames. Then I’ll rise from the ashes, crying and confused, and most importantly, innocent.
Feniks!
The way out is in sight. Giving my victim a wide berth, I creep around the side of the bed and snatch the lighter from the bedside table. Then I grab the rum bottle, giving it a small shake. There’s not much left—no surprise, this dude was slugging it straight from the bottle—and I wonder if there’s enough to even start a fire destructive enough to erase my mistake.
Where should I start it? How? I need to make it look like an accident. My eyes graze over the body on the bed. Thankfully, he landed facedown after our struggle, meaning I don’t have to deal with his glassy eyes judging me, following me around the room while I decide how I’m going to—
