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Right now, it works in my favor. There is hardly any foot traffic on this side of the building. Still, wearing gloves will catch someone’s attention, so I keep my hands in my pockets. I walk around the back of the building and past my room until I reach the small window of the bathroom next door.
It’s open a little, and even though it’s small, I’m fairly certain I can squeeze through it. My size a blessing in situations like this.
What I do need, though, is a leg up. I look around and spot a trash can behind one of the empty rooms. I walk toward it with my head down and reach for it when I spot the plastic crate beside it filled with newspapers that I’m guessing are supposed to be recycled. That will work even better.
I grab the crate and carry it back to Mr. Handyman’s room and use it so I can get the top half of my body through the window. It’s a squeeze, and I can feel the split wooden frame grazing my arms and stomach. I just hope I don’t end up with a lot of splinters that need removing.
I ignore the pain in my side, grateful that I at least remembered to pop a couple of strong painkillers that I brought from the rental unit. Though I’m sure I’m going to regret this later once the adrenaline and pills wear off.
Thankfully, there is a wide window ledge that I use to pull myself in with and sit on before lowering myself into the tub that has a thick black ring of scum around it. Careful not to touch anything I shouldn’t, I quietly make my way into the bedroom. I pause in the doorway when I see the blonde woman lying on the bed with her metallic blue dress up around her waist and her legs spread wide with dried cum on the inside of her thighs. Most people in this state would rush to cover themselves when faced with a stranger, but not this girl. She’s staring sightlessly at the yellow, flaky ceiling, clearly having been dead for some time.
I step closer and see she has makeup smeared over her face, mascara from crying, and lipstick mostly from being force-fed a rancid cock. Her eyes are bloodshot, and not from drinking too much last night but because of blood cells popping from the pressure of having her oxygen cut off. Large red handprints mark her throat, that’s already starting to bruise, and bite marks cover the top of her breasts, which are exposed where the neckline of her dress is ripped.
I close my eyes for a minute and say a silent prayer for the girl who went out to have fun and stumbled into a nightmare. I wish I could say this was shocking for me, but it’s not. This is the world we live in. It’s not something that only occurs in movies or books. It doesn’t just happen to other people. It’s everywhere, in all walks of life. Trailer parks and upscale mansions, people in the breadline, and people who wipe their asses with money. It could happen to any one of us because evil doesn’t give a flying fuck about anything but leaving devastation in its wake. Some people who walk this earth should be wiped from it, but the reality is that it’s usually the good people who suffer the most and the bad guys who thrive.
I move away from her, my eyes landing on the red patent clutch tossed carelessly on the chair in the corner. I move over to it and pick it up, rifling through the contents. There isn’t much inside—a lipstick in the same shade that’s smeared over her face, a brush, and a cell phone that I don’t touch. Instead, I take the driver’s license and bank card from the inner zipper, pull out my phone, and snap a photo of each of them before returning them to the clutch.
I look back at the girl now that I know her name.
Demi Soot. Nineteen years old from Chora, Naxos.
I have no idea what she’s doing in a place like this with Mr. Handyman, but a pretty girl like her probably had stars in her eyes before they were extinguished.
I place the clutch back on the chair and walk the room for anything that might stand out. I see a man’s jacket tossed over the dresser near the outdated television and head over to it. I check the pockets and hit the jackpot when I find a wallet.
I pull it out and flip it open, and frown.You can’t be serious.I figured the man was a peanut short of a Snickers, but to leave his wallet behind at the crime scene makes him dumber than a bag of rocks. I’m not sure if this place offers maid service, but regardless, housekeeping would be around at some point to get the room ready for the next guest.
I scan his details.
Adrian Andino. Forty-eight years old from Ialysos.
Andino? Why does that sound so familiar?
Hmm—fuck. I remember.
I walk to the window and look out through the crack in the drapes, up at the sign hanging proudly over the reception area.Andino Inn. Est 1955. I look around the room and wonder if it’s ever been revamped since then.
Now, at least, I know why this man—Adrian—isn’t worried about housekeeping. He isn’t the janitor, this is his place, and he can control who comes and goes from this room. Shame the motherfucker didn’t account for me.
I think back to when I booked the room. I did it online using a fake name and credit card to give myself a level of anonymity. There wasn’t much that stood out—certainly nothing that would raise any red flags. Except maybe the box I had to check to say if I was male or female. I didn’t give it much thought at the time—I had far more pressing things going on. Thinking about it now, it’s an odd thing for a motel to ask someone. Unless they’re screening their customers based on their sex.
“That fucking fuck,” I curse into the too-quiet room. I look over at Demi and feel a wave of sadness hit me. This poor girl didn’t stand a chance.
That’s when I notice that there is fresh cum on the girl’s pubic hair as the light catches it. He didn’t just defile her when she was alive. This sick fuck desecrated her body afterward, too.
I shove his license in my pocket and leave the room the same way I entered it. Once outside, I retrace my steps and return to my room, hoping my anger burns out before I get there. Anger makes a person reckless. When I open the door, the handyman, who is awake now, turns to me. All I can picture is his hands around Demi’s throat as he fucks her. I can see her fear-filled eyes in my head as she struggles, clawing at his hands that prevent her from screaming, all the while knowing I was right next door, oblivious to everything.
I stalk toward him, ignoring Calix, who is sitting on the end of the bed, and kick the fucker in the face. I lift my foot to kick him again but find myself being pulled back into Calix’s arms. I fight him, the cap falling from my head, but he keeps hold of me. I don’t want to hurt him, so I eventually stop struggling, though I’m aware I’m balancing on the edge here. One wrong word, and I’ll shoot this guy’s dick off without blinking.
“Calm the fuck down and tell me what’s going on,” Calix growls in my ear.
“What’s going on is Mr. Andino over here is a sick fuck. And he’s no more the janitor than I am a virgin bride.”
Andino stares up at me with blood running down his face.
“How many came before Demi?”
“Demi?”
