I don’t wait for his response. I march toward the back of the bar and past the restrooms, Nick reluctantly following in my wake. Punching the exit bar on the back door, I fling it open toward the alley.
“Right there! Look!” I point to the spot where Benny’s body fell, where his blood pooled, where his dead eyes stared up at the night sky.
Nothing.
The alley stretches before us, unremarkable and empty. No body. No blood. No evidence that a man died here mere hours ago.
Nick peers outside, glances around, then shakes his head. “I’m going to need the costume back, Bailey.”
The alley is clean. Spotless. Not even a cigarette butt remains where Benny crumpled.
“It was right here.” My mind reels. “He shot him right here.”
Nick sighs, his patience visibly thinning just like the hairline on his head. He scans the outfit, lip curled in distaste. “Not sure what you did in that maid getup, but I’m gonna need it cleaned.”
His unjust assumption snaps something inside me. “Not sure what I did in it? I’ll tell you what I did in it. I was kidnapped in it!”
Nick just stares at me, unmoved. Do I see even a hint of concern in his eyes? Of course not. Only judgment. He thinksI’m lying. Assumes I went home with someone, got wasted, ruined my “uniform,” and now I’m spinning wild tales to cover my ass.
He doesn’t believe that I witnessed a murder or know I fled down a fire escape and ran barefoot through the city, terrified for my life.
“You can pick up your last check next Friday.” He heads back inside, leaving me alone in the alley.
I stare at the clean concrete where Benny died, struggling to reconcile what I know with what I’m seeing. Did I imagine everything? The gunshot. The blood. Alexei’s hands on me.
I rub wrists still sore from the zip ties.
Not a dream, then. Not a hallucination.
Just a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
The door clicks shut behind me, the sound final and irrevocable. I’m alone. Unemployed, in a bloodstained maid costume, with no phone and no credibility.
I spin around, scanning the alley again. There has to be some piece of evidence. Some trace. I move forward on tender feet, ignoring the bite of gravel against my soles. It happened right here. I can still see the tableau in my mind…dropping the trash bags, struggling with Benny, the sudden crack of the shot, the spray of warm liquid across my face…
My fingers trace the brick wall near where Benny’s body slumped. Nothing. No smear or stain. Just pristine concrete, swept clean of alley debris. Too clean. Unnaturally clean. Even with the heat, the realization chills my spine. Whoever Alexei called to remove the body sanitized the entire scene.
Professionals. The kind who know how to erase a murder.
I crouch down, inspecting the ground inch by inch. A murder happened here. A man died. His blood pooled on this concrete. Surely they missed at least some small detail. A microscopic trace. A modicum of evidence proving that I’m not crazy.
Nothing. I find absolutely nothing.
Hot, sour panic rises in my throat. I need somewhere safe to figure out what the hell I’m going to do next.
Home. My tiny studio apartment in Northalsted. It’s not much, but it’s mine. A door I can lock, walls I can hide behind, clean clothes I can change into. After I’ve had a chance to come up with a plan, I’ll call Samantha and check on her.
To warn her, maybe, though what would I even say? “Hey sis, I witnessed a Russian mobster kill a guy last night. Then he kidnapped me, but I escaped, and now I’m afraid they’re all after me, and you by extension, so watch your back.”
She’d think I was crazy.
After making one last stop inside the bar to get my cell phone and purse out of the employee locker, I start walking, my bare feet finding the smoothest and coolest path on the scorching sidewalk. Home. It’s the only place I can go. The only refuge I have left.
The five-story walk-up to my apartment has never felt longer. Each concrete step hurts my bare feet, and my shoulders sag from a combination of exhaustion, fear, and knowledge of my unemployment. I just want the safety of my own four walls, no matter how small or shabby.
Another hot shower. Clean clothes. Time to breathe, to think, to figure out how to navigate the nightmare my life has become. My hand trembles as I fit the key into the lock, the metal scraping against metal before catching.
One turn, and I’m home.
