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Chapter 1
Skye
Raised voices echo down the hall, escaping from the cracked hotel room door where sheer white drapes billow out as if in surrender. I stall at the threshold, steeling myself. I’ve been doing this job long enough to know what to expect, but it doesn’t ever get any easier. I knock once. Twice. Announce my intent. But there is no acknowledgment.
I look over my shoulder at Heather for reassurance, the weathered lines of her face twisted in fear and disgust, and receive none. She’s barely holding it together. I swallow hard and push the door open.
Garbage and liquor bottles litter the floor like New Year’s confetti. Pictures hang askew on the walls, splattered with a dark substance that has likely dried to stain. Watching my feet as I move, I carefully skirt a spilled pile of Raman beside an overturned side table.
“Do you smell that?” Heather asks, glancing around hesitantly, her nose wrinkling in offense.
I nod. “I should have called out today.” I retrieve a pair of latex gloves from my back pocket and slide them on. Whatever happened in here, I definitely don’t want to touch it. I knock on the bedroom door, but again, no answer.
Heather makes a startled sound, and I turn around to see her at the entrance to the bathroom. “I found where the smell is coming from.” Her hand flies to cover her mouth in horror.
I keep moving, around the sofa and across the room to the TV. At top volume, political commentators shout passionately at one another about opposing legislation.
I scan the destruction, look for the remote, and reluctantly pick through a damp pile of clothing before spotting it beneath a stack of take-out cartons. I grab it and flip the TV off, grimacing as the remote sticks to my gloved hand when I place it on the table.
“Mr. Benson?” I call out, walking toward the double glass doors that open onto the balcony. I can see the ocean beyond the glass, the waves curling as they roll into shore. “Mr…” I pause, taking a breath to steady myself, and question again. “Mr. Benson?”
Flat on his back, a naked man lies still on the cool concrete of the balcony, partially saturated with the spilled contents of a whiskey bottle still clutched in his hand. His blonde hair is matted to his head with a reddish substance, which I might find concerning if I hadn’t already noticed the strawberry jam mural on the kitchen cabinets. I repeat his name again, and call over Heather.
“Is he okay?” She asks, nudging him with her shoe. He rambles off a mouthful of slurred nonsense about the liberal media androlls over.
“He’s alive,” I grumble, leaning down to him. “Hey! What’s his first name?”
“Leonard.”
“Leonard Benson? Jesus. His parents really had high expectations for his future.” I shake him. “Leonard. Man, you’ve got to get up.”
He groans, lifting the hand with the whiskey bottle to shield his eyes from the sun, and dumping the remaining liquid into his face.
“Are you the police? What day is it?” He coughs, startled.
“Today is Thursday. And no, we’re not the police. We’re the hotel maid service. You need to come with us.”
“What? Why? I paid for this room.”
I nod. “Yes, you did. But you see, you’re on the second floor of a sixteen-story hotel that’s shaped like a C. That means that there’s basically an amphitheater of hotel guests who can see your naked ass lying down here. And they may be able to forgive your appearance, but not the fact that you’ve been blaring Frank Colson’s talk show at top volume for the last hour. We can only take so much.”
Leonard curses and rolls into a sitting position. I hand him a washcloth and turn around for privacy. He looks at it.
“Really?” He asks in annoyance.
“You know I’ve seen you naked, right?”
Leonard curses again, covers his crotch, and staggers inside. Cheers erupt from various hotel balconies, and I glance up at our audience.
“Sorry,” I shout back with a shrug.
“Oh, Summer break. I’m glad it’s a break for someone,”Heather says, watching Leonard amble into the bedroom with a hand braced against the wall for support.
“It’s going to be Summer broke for this guy when he gets the hotel bill,” I laugh.
“Hello,” a cheerful voice calls from the hallway. “Skye?”
“In here, Paige,” I answer, carefully picking my steps back through the living room.
