Detective Ben Parker

Ben Parker was the kind of guy you’d trust to water your plants while you were on vacation, mostly because he’d make a spreadsheet to remind himself when and how much to water them. Clean-cut, with sandy blond hair that perpetually looked like he’d spent just enough time in the mirror to make it appear effortless, Ben had “reliable” written all over him. He wore his button-down shirts like they were armor, the sleeves rolled up neatly, but never carelessly. You could spot his Audi in the parking lot because it was always parked exactly between the lines, never an inch off. He had this air of quiet competence that could make you believe everything was going to be fine, even if the building was on fire.

But Ben wasn’t perfect. He thought too much, cared too much, and spent too much time trying to solve other people’s problems. His curiosity about people was both his greatest strength and his most exhausting trait. He wanted to know why people ticked the way they did, which was admirable, except when it meant getting himself tangled in messes better left alone. It didn’t help that his natural earnestness made him the perfect foil for his partner.

Detective Louis “Big Lou” Alvarez

Lou Alvarez was everything Ben Parker wasn’t: loud, jaded, and built like a linebacker who’d traded the gym for late-night poker games. Over six feet of muscle stuffed into whatever shirt was clean that morning, Lou carried himself like he was just daring someone to challenge him, which no one ever did—probably because of the way he loomed over everyone else like a one-man wrecking crew. His hair was perpetually disheveled, his tie always askew, and he seemed to have an allergy to things like “organization” and “following protocol.” He once described his desk as “organized chaos,” though Ben was pretty sure it was just regular chaos.

Lou’s humor was a mix of sarcasm and gallows wit, honed by years of dealing with the worst humanity had to offer. He had no patience for fools, bureaucrats, or people who took themselves too seriously. He liked to call Ben “Professor Tidy,” partly because it annoyed him and partly because, let’s be honest, it was accurate. Lou had seen enough to know that life didn’t always tie up neatly with a bow, and he wasn’t shy about reminding Ben of that fact. But under the gruff exterior and wisecracks, there was a guy who’d walk through fire for the people he cared about—though he’d never admit it outright.

Together, they were a study in contrasts: Ben, the meticulous planner with his spreadsheets and polished shoes, and Lou, the human wrecking ball with a soft spot for bad coffee and even worse jokes. But somehow, it worked. Most of the time.

The unmarked car cruised through the sticky Miami streets, the moon dipping below the horizon and darkening the city with its faint hint of morning mist. It made the run-down neighborhood they were entering seem even grimmer. Ben Parker drove in silence, the steady hum of the engine filling the space between him and Lou Alvarez, who was scrolling on his phone in the passenger seat.

“Starlight Inn,” Lou said finally, glancing at the GPS. “Otherwise known as the place your dreams go to OD.” He shook his head. “You ever notice how all these motels have names that sound like they should be halfway decent? Starlight, Sunbeam, Paradise? Why not call it what it is—The Overdose Motel or Murder Suites?”

“Let’s try to stay on topic,” Ben replied, his voice calm but laced with a hint of humor.

Lou shrugged, setting his phone down. “Fine. Let’s talk about Kyle and Rosie, then. Bet you a beer this ends with one of them being zipped into a body bag.”

“Jesus, Lou.” Ben tightened his grip on the wheel. “You ever think maybe you’re leaning a little too hard on the cynicism? You’re not that old to be this jaded, you know.”

“Relax, Professor Tidy,” Lou said with a grin. “Not everyone’s out here living their life like it’s perfectly polished. Some people are stupid. They just light themselves on fire and hope for rain.”

Ben stared at the road ahead, his jaw tightening as the memory of the last time he dealt with these two surfaced. It had been late afternoon outside a run-down liquor store, the kind with barred windows and neon beer signs that hadn’t worked right in years. Rosie and Kyle had been in the middle of a screaming match so loud it spilled onto the sidewalk, drawing the attention of passersby, who called it in as a public disturbance.

Ben had taken Rosie aside while Lou handled Kyle. She’d been a healthy woman with sharp eyes that glinted with both anger and something deeper—fear, maybe. Her lower lip was split, and freshly swollen. A bruise was blooming faintly on her cheek. She had all the hallmarks of a battered woman: the defensive posture, the quick, furtive glances at Kyle even when he wasn’t looking at her, and the way her arms stayed crossed tightly over her chest like they could shield her from whatever storm was coming next.

But what struck Ben most was her toughness. She’d spat out a fiery defense of Kyle, accusing the bystanders of being busybodies and insisting that her man was just having a hard day. “We’re just loud when we fight,” she had snapped, glaring at Ben as if daring him to suggest otherwise. “That’s all it is. It’s nobody else’s business.”

Ben had kept his voice calm, and patient. “I get it, Rosie. People fight. But the way you’re looking at him, the way he’s looking at you—it wasn’t just a fight, was it? That’s fear.”

Her eyes had narrowed, but the flare of defiance wavered. “You don’t know anything about us. He…he’s in a lot of pain,” she said, her voice lower now, almost pleading. “Kyle… he just gets mad sometimes. At me. But he loves me. He does.”

“Doesn’t sound like love to me,” Ben had replied gently. “Sounds like control.”

For a moment, Rosie had faltered. Her lips parted as if she was about to say something more, something important, but then her gaze darted over Ben’s shoulder toward Kyle. Her face was striking, even in that tense moment. She had the kind of beauty that didn’t need makeup or perfect lighting—the kind that sneaked up on you and lingered in your thoughts long after you’d looked away.

Her high cheekbones caught the afternoon light, and her full lips pressed into a thin, determined line. Her large brown eyes, framed by thick lashes, were alive with emotion: defiance, anger, and something deeper—something raw and uncertain. She stood only to Ben’s shoulder and her figure filled out the loose tank top and men’s basketball shorts she wore. Still, the fabric hanging off her like the clothing didn’t belong to her. She would likely have been barefoot at home, but out here, in the street, she wore a pair of ill-fitting slides, one of which flopped against the sidewalk with every agitated step she took.

Behind Ben, Kyle Daniels was shouting something unintelligible at Lou, his voice a drunken, slurred mess of insults and bravado. He looked like a collection of bad decisions made flesh. His greasy hair, the color of ash flopped into his eyes. His skin was pale and pockmarked, marred by years of neglect and whatever substances had made their way into his veins. Random, poorly executed tattoos covered his arms, the kind you’d get in someone’s basement. Something scribbled in Spanish stretched across the front of his neck, but it might as well have been hieroglyphics. He wore jeans several sizes too big, shredded at the knees, and a threadbare, faded black T-shirt, the logo long since worn away.

The needle marks on his arms were stark and unapologetic, fresh scabs mingling with older scars. Even his toes weren’t spared—red, angry pinpricks visible thanks to the cheap flip-flops he shuffled around in. His fingernails were long and dirty, the kind of grime that didn’t come off with soap because soap hadn’t been part of his routine in a long time.

Lou, of course, was unmoved by the drunken tirade, standing like an unshakable wall, his massive frame casting a shadow that made Kyle seem even smaller.

Rosie’s expression hardened, her fear twisting into fury. She muttered something in rapid Spanish, a curse that Ben only half understood but recognized instantly in tone.

“¡Coño, no lo toques, cabrón!” she snapped, her voice cracking with emotion. She stormed forward, yanking one of the slides off her foot with a quick, practiced motion. Before Ben could react, she hurled it at Lou with surprising accuracy.

The slide hit Lou square in the shoulder and bounced off with an anticlimactic thud. Lou, who was in the middle of cuffing Kyle, didn’t even flinch. He turned his head slightly, glancing at Rosie with the calm detachment of someone who’d seen far worse.

“Seriously?” Lou said, raising an eyebrow.

Rosie didn’t back down. “I’ll do it again, pendejo!” she shouted, reaching for her other slide.

“Ma’am,” Ben interrupted, stepping in front of her, palms up. “No one’s hurting Kyle. Lou’s just making sure he doesn’t hurt himself—or anyone else.”

Rosie glared at him, “He didn’t do anything wrong!” she insisted, her accent a mix of inner-city Miami grit and the softer cadence of a traditional Cuban household. “This is all bullshit! You’re all bullshit!”

Ben kept his voice steady, trying to diffuse the situation. “Rosie, I’m not saying Kyle did anything. We’re just trying to keep things calm. You can help by staying over here, away from him. Can you do that?”

Her gaze flicked to Kyle, who was cursing loudly, spittle flying from his lips, as Lou maneuvered him toward the squad car. For a moment, the anger in her eyes dimmed, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. She looked like she wanted to run to him, to defend him, but also like she wanted to collapse on the spot.

Her lips parted again, and Ben thought she might finally say something, something real, but then she shook her head sharply as if banishing the thought. “Just don’t hurt him,” she said, her voice quieter now, but no less firm.

“We won’t,” Ben assured her, though he doubted Kyle deserved the loyalty she was giving him.

Rosie took a step back, her body still coiled with tension and slipped her slide back onto her foot. She muttered another curse under her breath, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re all the same,” she said bitterly, staring at the ground. “You act like you’re here to help, but you don’t give a damn about people like us.”

Ben didn’t respond to that. He knew better than to argue. Instead, he let the moment sit in silence, her words lingering in the humid Miami air. He glanced back at Lou, who was loading Kyle into the car, and sighed.

Rosie had all the fire in the world, but it was misdirected. He could see it in the way she clenched her fists, in the way her defiance flickered every time she looked at Kyle. She was caught in a storm, too scared to find shelter, and too proud to admit she needed it.

Ben wished he could do more for her, but he knew she wasn’t ready. He had to let her go, knowing there was no forcing someone like Rosie to leave unless she wanted to. Still, her words stuck with him: He just gets mad sometimes. It wasn’t an admission of guilt, not really, but it was enough to make Ben realize how deeply she’d internalized the abuse. She didn’t see herself as a victim—she saw herself as someone who had to endure.

Back in the present, Ben let out a slow breath, gripping the wheel tighter. “Rosie’s not stupid,” he said finally. “Scared, maybe. Broken, definitely. But not stupid.”

“Didn’t say she was,” Lou replied, glancing at him. “But scared and broken doesn’t stop her from sticking around a guy like Kyle, does it? And we both know how that ends. He’s a powder keg, and she’s too close to the blast radius.”

Ben nodded grimly. He’d seen it too many times before. Women like Rosie didn’t just leave—they stayed, hoping things would get better until they didn’t. And Kyle? He wasn’t the type to let her walk away easily. If things had spiraled since that day outside the liquor store, Ben didn’t like where they might have ended.

Ben exhaled through his nose, glancing briefly at Lou. “Do you moonlight as a motivational speaker, or is this just a side hobby?”

Lou smirked. “Just for you, Princess. Keeps the ride interesting.”

The radio crackled, breaking the tension. Ben reached for it as a voice came through. “Detectives, we’ve got the scene processed. Officer Cho’s holding the evidence for you.”

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Ben acknowledged the call, and Lou sat up straighter, his smirk fading. “Right. Let’s see what the horror show looks like.”

The Starlight Inn loomed like a bad decision waiting to happen. Its flickering neon sign buzzed faintly, casting a sickly green light over the cracked pavement. A uniformed rookie stood outside Room 212, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. He straightened as Ben and Lou approached, holding a clear plastic evidence bag in one hand and a smaller envelope in the other.

“Detectives,” the rookie said, his voice tight. He handed the larger bag to Lou, who inspected its contents—a used needle, a burnt spoon, a few empty baggies, and a lighter.

“Charming,” Lou muttered, holding the bag up to the light. “Nothing says ‘five-star accommodations’ like a little drug kit.” He passed it to Ben.

The rookie hesitated, then held out the smaller envelope. “And this was under the bed. Figured it might be important.”

Lou took it, frowning as he opened it. Inside was a delicate silver necklace, a tiny medal dangling from the chain. He held it up, the charm catching the dim light. “This hers?”

Lou squinted at the small medal in the evidence bag, turning it slightly so the light caught the intricate engraving. “That’s Saint Lazarus,” he said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “Or Babalú Ayé, if you know your Santería.”

Ben frowned, glancing at Lou. “Santería?”

“Yeah,” Lou said, handing the bag back. “Saint of healing, protector of the sick and the outcasts. Big deal in Cuban households, especially for people like Rosie. You don’t just leave something like that behind unless something serious went down.”

Ben studied the medal, his eyes intent. “So it’s not just a necklace to her.”

“Nope,” Lou said, leaning back against the patrol car. “That’s a piece of her beliefs. If she left that, it wasn’t by choice.”

“Then something’s wrong,” Ben finished, his voice grim. He turned to the rookie. “Anything else? Witnesses? Footage?”

The rookie shifted uncomfortably, holding the evidence bag in one hand. “The manager called it in,” he explained. “Said the rent’s late, and she’s worried about losing money. She asked us to check the room because the maid flat-out refused to go in. Said it smelled too bad and didn’t feel right.”

Lou raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t feel right? That’s comforting.”

The rookie swallowed hard. “Yeah, well, when we opened the door…” He hesitated, glancing at the bag in his hand before continuing. “It’s bad, Detective. Like someone got hurt in there.”

The office of the Starlight Inn was just as dingy as the rest of the motel—yellowing walls, a battered desk cluttered with receipts, and the faint smell of stale cigarette smoke. The manager sat in a squeaky, vinyl swivel chair, her housecoat cinched loosely around her, a cigarette perched between two fingers like it was an extension of her hand. She exhaled a plume of smoke as Lou and Ben stood in front of her, clearly unimpressed with their presence.

“So,” Ben began, his tone calm but firm, “what made you decide to call this in?”

The manager shrugged, her cigarette bouncing slightly between her fingers. “Maid wouldn’t go in,” she said, as if that explained everything. “She took one look, said it smelled bad, and quit on the spot. I sure as hell wasn’t gonna go in there.”

Lou leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed. “So, you didn’t see anything? Didn’t hear anything?”

“Look, Detective,” she said, drawing out the word like it was a chore, “people don’t come to the Starlight Inn to make friends or have tea parties. They come here to... you know, do what they do. I don’t ask questions.”

“And how long has the room been... like that?” Ben pressed, his brow furrowing.

“Who knows?” she said, exhaling another puff of smoke. “Couple days, maybe. Rent was overdue, and when the maid refused to clean, I figured it was time to get someone else to deal with it.”

Lou raised an eyebrow, glancing at Ben. “So, just to be clear, you didn’t go in the room, and you didn’t see or hear anything unusual. You only called because you wanted the room ready for the next guest.”

“Exactly,” she said, flicking ash into a chipped mug on the desk. “What, you think I’d go in there myself? Please. I don’t get paid enough for that.”

Ben’s jaw tightened, but he kept his tone even. “Did anyone else around here mention anything? Tenants, neighbors?”

The manager shook her head, leaning back in her chair. “Nope. People mind their own business around here. And honestly, even if they did hear something, you think they’d tell me? Half of them don’t want anyone to know their real names.”

Lou gave Ben a pointed look, his expression practically shouting, I told you so.

The manager, oblivious or uninterested in their silent exchange, stubbed out her cigarette in the mug. “So, what’s the deal? You gonna find whoever skipped out on me? Because I still need the rent.”

Ben clenched and released his fist at his side, but he said nothing, looking at the floor. Lou, however, leaned in with a humorless grin. “Yeah, sure. We’ll put ‘missing rent collection’ right at the top of our priority list. Right above ‘possible homicide.’ That work for you?”

The manager snorted, waving a hand dismissively. “Just don’t scare off the rest of my tenants, okay? People talk.”

Ben turned toward the door, his voice tight. “We’ll let you know if we find anything.”

As they stepped out of the office, Lou gave Ben a sidelong glance. “You know she’s probably got that maid’s mop on standby for us, right?”

Ben didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth twitched in what might’ve been a suppressed grimace—or a laugh.

The smell hit them first—metallic and sour, thick with the unmistakable stench of old blood and something acrid that clung to the back of the throat. Ben and Lou stepped inside, and the scene unfolded before them like a crime scene straight out of a nightmare.

Blood streaked the walls in jagged, haphazard smears, like an artist gone mad with a brush dipped in crimson. The patterns told no story but hinted at one—a desperate, chaotic struggle. Splashes and streaks reached absurdly high, near the ceiling, as if whoever had bled here had been flailing or thrown. In the dim, flickering light, the dark red streaks almost seemed to shimmer, wet and alive.

The mattress lay overturned, its springs exposed like broken ribs. The fabric sagged, bloated with a dark stain that had soaked through, bleeding into the threadbare carpet below. The smell was overwhelming—a pungent mix of copper, mildew, and something sharper, like bleach hastily poured to cover up the truth but failing miserably. The bleach only made it worse, a chemical tang that burned the back of the throat and clung to the air.

Broken glass was scattered everywhere, catching the faint light and winking like sinister shards of ice. It crunched underfoot with every step, mixing with the sticky sound of shoes meeting the blood-smeared floor. A chair lay on its side, one leg snapped clean off, while the nightstand was a pile of splinters, the drawer yanked out and missing altogether. A lamp dangled precariously from its cord, its bulb swung back and forth like a pendulum, casting warped shadows that danced across the carnage.

The bathroom door stood ajar, its cheap laminate surface splintered as if someone had slammed into it repeatedly. Inside, the horror continued. Blood spattered the sink in abstract patterns, droplets clinging to the faucet as though frozen mid-flight. The mirror above was cracked, jagged lines slicing through the reflection of the carnage behind them. The toilet seat was up, and more blood streaked its porcelain rim, pooling on the tile below like a macabre offering.

And then there was the shower. The curtain was half-drawn, its cheap plastic riddled with holes and long, dark streaks that smeared across its surface. The drain was clogged, a sluggish pool of dark liquid swirling lazily around something pale and stringy. Hair, perhaps. Or worse.

The silence in the room was oppressive, thick with an unnatural weight that pressed against the chest. It was the kind of quiet that screamed louder than any noise, a vacuum that seemed to amplify the grotesque details. This wasn’t just a scene of violence—it was a scene of something personal, something filled with rage and despair, something meant to leave a mark long after the bodies were gone.

Lou let out a low whistle, the sound cutting through the oppressive silence like a blade. He stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed, his usually flippant demeanor subdued by the carnage laid out before them. “Damn,” he muttered, his voice unusually quiet. “This wasn’t a fight. This is a freakin’ war zone.”

Ben stepped in slowly, the crunch of glass under his shoes breaking the stillness. His face was unreadable, but the tight line of his jaw betrayed his discomfort. He scanned the room, his eyes moving from the smeared walls to the overturned mattress, to the dark, sticky puddle spreading across the carpet. “This isn’t random,” he said finally, his voice low. “Whoever did this… they weren’t in a rush.”

Lou shot him a sideways glance. “No kidding. You don’t leave a scene like this unless you’re making a statement. Question is: who’s the message for?”

Ben didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the bloodstains near the bathroom, then on the shattered mirror. The jagged edges reflected fractured pieces of the room, each one more grotesque than the last. “The blood,” he murmured, pointing to the streaks on the walls. “That’s not just from one person. It’s too much.”

Lou crouched by the bed, inspecting the soaked carpet beneath it. “Yeah, no way this is just Kyle and Rosie throwing punches. You don’t trash a room like this over who’s paying for dinner.” He reached for a shard of glass near his foot, turning it over in his hand. “They had help—or at least, one hell of a guest.”

Ben turned to Lou, his face grave. “You think they’re dead?”

Lou shrugged, standing and brushing off his hands. “I think if they’re not, they’ll wish they were when whoever did this finds them again.” He gestured toward the bathroom. “You see that drain? Something was dragged or washed down it. And this much blood? Nobody walks away from that without some scars.”

Ben nodded grimly, his gut twisting as he stepped closer to the bathroom. The air was heavier there, the smell of bleach mingling with the sour tang of blood and mildew. He stopped short of the shower, unwilling to look too closely at the clogged drain just yet. “We need forensics to confirm anything,” he said finally, but even as he spoke, he knew the odds weren’t good.

Lou leaned against the cracked doorframe, watching Ben with a mix of curiosity and something almost like pity. “You don’t look like you’re holding out much hope, Professor Tidy.”

Ben shot him a glare. “You see anything hopeful in here?”

Lou shrugged again. “Fair point.” He looked back at the room, his sharp eyes scanning every broken piece of furniture, every streak of blood. “Whoever did this didn’t just lose their temper. This was personal. Deliberate. Like they wanted to make sure nobody could walk in here without puking—or remembering.”

Ben’s jaw clenched. “Well, I won’t be forgetting anytime soon.” He stepped back toward the doorway, glancing once more at the shattered mess of the room. “Come on. Let’s talk to the manager again. She’s gotta know something.”

Lou followed, but not before giving the room one last look. “If she says she didn’t hear anything, I’m calling bullshit,” he muttered. “You’d have to be deaf not to notice this kind of party.”

Ben didn’t respond, his mind already working through the possibilities. This wasn’t just another motel scuffle. This was something darker. And they needed to find out how far behind they were.

Ben and Lou stood in the doorway of the manager’s cramped office, the dim light overhead flickering as if even it were reluctant to stay. The woman behind the desk had shed her disinterested facade, though she wasn’t exactly apologetic either. She sat hunched in her chair, a housecoat wrapped tightly around her bony shoulders, her cigarette burned down to a nub in the ashtray in front of her.

For the first time, Ben noticed how truly old she was. Deep wrinkles crisscrossed her face like a map of hard years, the kind that came from a life lived without safety nets. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for another cigarette, though whether it was from age, fear, or exhaustion, he couldn’t tell. Her expression remained stony, but her sunken eyes darted nervously between the two detectives, betraying the vulnerability beneath the hardened exterior. Ben crouched next to the desk to look the woman in the eyes.

Lou spun a chair around and mounted it backward, his massive frame dwarfing the tiny room, but his presence only seemed to make her shrink further. “So, you did see the room,” he said flatly, crossing his arms.

The manager nodded, her lips tightening around a thin line. “Yeah. I saw it.” She flicked her lighter, the flame sputtering weakly before catching. Her voice was hoarse, from smoke or fear or both. “I opened the door after the maid quit yesterday. Took one look and slammed it shut. That’s when I called you guys.”

“And you heard something. Didn’t you?” Ben prompted, his tone gentler than Lou’s.

The manager hesitated, her eyes dropping to the desk. She tapped her cigarette against the edge of the ashtray, scattering embers that glowed briefly before dying. “I hear things every night,” she said, her voice dry but strained. “Groaning, smacking, giggling, screaming. This place doesn’t exactly attract quiet folks. I started wearing earplugs years ago. Cuts down on the bullshit.”

Lou raised an eyebrow. “But this was different…,” he pressed.

The manager looked up, meeting his gaze for the first time, her expression unreadable. “Because it didn’t stop,” she said simply. “Most nights, the screaming turns into laughing, or groaning, or something else. But this... it kept going. It got worse. And then it just... stopped.”

Ben exchanged a glance with Lou, whose jaw flexed. “When was this,” he asked pointedly.

“A couple nights ago. I waited until the maid came and had her look for me,” the manager admitted.

“How long were Kyle and Rosie in that room?” Ben asked.

“Weeks,” the manager said, taking a long drag from her cigarette. “Longer than I usually let people stay. Most don’t last that long. They either skip out or get tossed out. But...” She paused, her voice catching just slightly before continuing. “Rosie was... she was kind. Once. Offered to help me carry groceries to the office. Even smiled at me. You don’t get much of that these days.”

Ben tilted his head, his brow furrowing. “Kindness made you let them stay.” - not a question.

The manager’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “Don’t make it sound so noble, Detective. I’m running a business, not a charity. But yeah, I let them stay longer. Figured she deserved a break.”

Lou snorted softly, but Ben ignored him, his focus on the manager. For all her bitterness, her fear was palpable now. Not just fear of the blood-soaked room, but fear of what came next—fear of losing her income, of being left alone with no one to help her. She was hardened, yes, but Ben could see the cracks in the armor, the human beneath the harsh exterior.

“So now?” Ben asked, his voice steady.

The manager took another drag, exhaling slowly. “Now I just want to keep my damn roof over my head. If people hear about this, they’ll stop coming. And if I lose this place...” Her voice trailed off, leaving the unspoken truth hanging in the air.

“You’re scared,” Ben said quietly, not as an accusation, but as a statement of fact.

The manager’s lips twitched, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “Aren’t you?” she asked, her tone sharp but laced with something softer. “You saw that room. You tell me who wouldn’t be scared after that.”

Ben didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned back, glancing at his partner. Lou gave him a subtle shrug, the faintest well, duh! look in his eyes.

“Alright,” Ben said finally, straightening. “We’ll let you know if we find anything. In the meantime, don’t touch the room.”

“As if I would,” the manager muttered, crushing her cigarette in the ashtray with unnecessary force.

Lou pushed off the chair, his face unreadable as he stepped toward the door. “You might want to think about finding another maid,” he said over his shoulder, his tone deadpan. “Something tells me you’re gonna need one.”

The manager didn’t reply, but as they walked out of the office, Ben glanced back and saw her slumping further into her chair, a tired, scared woman wearing the weight of the world—and a battered housecoat.