The woman nods at a passing bell-boy—that’s the kind of ritzy place I’m in—and he stops in front of me, grimacing, because of course, he went to my school, and I hate his guts, and he hates mine.
But whatever. I have a murderer to find. I don’t give a shit right now about my old bullies.
“Piper–uhm–Miss Day has a reservation for the penthouse suite,” says the receptionist. “Take her up, will you?”
Kevin the asshole bellboy’s shocked expression must be a mirror of my own. What the actual fuck? The penthouse suite? The biggest set of rooms in the Astley Hotel?
This isn’t a 1000-dollar a night room. This is a 10,000 dollars a night room. Or rather, floor. The penthouse suite being the entire top floor of the Astley Hotel.
Swallowing my nerves, I follow Kevin into an elevator. He presses on a button then leans against the wall, eyeing me in a very non-bellboy-like way.
“So, guess your folks had money after all, huh?” he says, blowing a bubble with his chewing gum.
“What?” It takes a moment for his meaning to sink in.
“Is that why you killed them?” he smirks.
Before I even know what I’m doing, I’ve thrown a fist out,and it collides with the side of his smug face. Then I punch him again, and I hear the satisfying crunch of his nose breaking under my fist.
“What the fuck!” he shrieks, grabbing at his bloody nose. “You fucking psycho cunt! Fuck! My nose!”
The elevator arrives at the top floor at that moment, and he shoves me out, still cursing at me, then hurriedly presses the elevator button so that the doors shut in my face.
I pick up the key he let fall to the floor, relishing in the feel of my smarting hand. If I’d known how good it felt to punch assholes, I would have started a long time ago. Maybe I should take up a boxing class.
Between the satisfaction of breaking Kevin’s nose and the realization that I’ve got a mystery on my hands, things are starting to feel just a little less bleak.
Or maybe it just hasn’t really sunk in yet. I have to repress the urge to call Dad and tell him all about how I beat up one of my bullies. When I close my eyes, I don’t see the lifeless corpse with the blood trickling out of his mouth. I see my goofball dad, whom I could talk to about anything, who loved Mom like crazy, and whose long monologues often made Mom and I roll our eyes.
Somehow I find myself thinking of him as I cross the little hall that separates the elevator from the entrance to the suite. I unlock the door, wondering why I’m thinking so much more of him than of Mom. I loved her too. But we were never as close, and a little worm of regret is starting to eat at me. I wish we had been closer. I really wish we had. Is it too late to go back and try?
But all thoughts of Mom and Dad are suddenly wiped from my mind as I enter the suite.
Holy fucking shit.
It’s way more intense than anything I could have imagined. There are floor to ceiling windows and the size of the living roomis three times the size of our house. There’s a hot tub on the balcony. A freaking hot tub.
The doors to the other rooms are parted just enough for me to see that the ostentatious luxury is present everywhere. Everything is beige, too. There’s a massive fireplace and Modern Art on the walls. I have a feeling it’s all original art, too, and I bet the hotel paid way too much for it, given how fucking ugly it is.
This place is luxury incarnated.
I get that the murderer wants to keep me close and all that, but why the penthouse suite? Could he not have killed me without paying 10,000 dollars to do it?
Hell, I would have been happy to stay in the cheapest room here. He didn’t need to spend 10,000 dollars to trick me into coming.
I cautiously walk from one room to the next, trying to find a sign of him. I’m once more realizing how stupid I am, because I don’t have a single weapon. Even if I found him first, I probably wouldn’t have time to get answers, let alone make him pay, if he decided to blow my brains out. I look around for something, anything, that I could use to defend myself, and settle on an umbrella.
That’s really all there is. No pokers for the fireplace, which is a fake electric one, and the kitchen is just for show—there isn’t even a hint of a frying pan. There are wooden hangers in the bedroom, and I size them up, wondering if a hanger or an umbrella would do the most damage.
Probably neither, is the answer. I end up choosing the umbrella because it’s green, and that’s my favorite color.
Then I stand by the door, umbrella in hand, waiting for someone to walk in so I can bash them on the head.
I feel like an idiot, and that feeling just intensifies over the next hour as no one comes in. This isn’t some stupid kid’s book. It’s notthiseasy to kill a murderer.
He’s probably waiting for me to get comfortable. He’ll barge in when I least expect it. Maybe he has cameras set up, and he’s watching me right now.
At the thought, I look around, and spot two of them. Not exactly discreet. I grab a chair and reach up to the top of a bookcase, then swipe the one over the mantelpiece, and crush them under my foot. Then I do the same thing in the other rooms, finding at least one in each.
