Beneath the Red Carpet

Crime scenes weren’t as glamorous as TV portrayed them to be. Naya knew that from firsthand experience. Once, she had walked red carpets and worn designer shoes. Now, she scrubbed blood out of grout in knockoff sneakers that barely held together. Rubber gloves, industrial bleach and the metallic tang of old blood filling her nose all replaced the scent of high-end perfume and champagne. There was no eerie music. No special effects. Just the buzz of cheap fluorescent overhead lighting and the occasional dry heave from the rookie herself.

She’d been scrubbing for two hours in a scene so gruesome, it would make death itself flinch and still, it was like she barely made a dent in the surface. Looking around the room, the door to the terrace was bolted, the windows were sealed shut and the air conditioning was broken, making the putrid scent thicken by the minute. The detectives had long since left, so now it was just her, the hum of the city far beyond the glass, and the ghost of whoever had bled out on the marble floor of Apartment 13B.

“Is this your full-time gig?” a deep voice interrupted her misery. The sound was so smooth, Naya could almost get lost in the warmth of his breath.

She didn’t jump. She was too tired for fear. She turned, still crouched, auburn hair frizzing out of her bun and her disposable mask barely hiding the sweat running down her cheek. A man in a pressed blue suit leaned against the doorframe. He looked exceptionally well put together. No badge. No uniform. And too clean to belong here.

“Depends,” she muttered, staring at his polished Oxfords. “You hiring?”

He smirked. “Possibly.” His teeth were unnervingly white and perfect. He obviously hadn’t missed a single dentist appointment in his life and if he ever had coffee, no one would have ever suspected.

“Unless you’re looking for someone to remove biohazards or scrub blood out of grout, I’m not your girl.”

“Funny. Most people don’t joke at a murder scene.”

“Most people aren’t paid minimum wage to clean them.” She stood, stretching her sore back, wincing at the pain. “So who are you, and why are you here? You’re not a cop, and you sure as hell aren’t grieving.”

He stepped forward, just a little. Close enough for her to catch the faint scent of cologne and money. This was the kind of scent she knew like the back of her palm and if not for her conniving ex-fiancé, who ran away with her trust fund, she’d still be wrapped up in gold herself.

“Julian Thorne. The deceased was an important associate of mine.” He glanced around the room with a practiced detachment. “And possibly my killer’s next target.”

Naya’s eyes wandered a bit before she landed on a small chuckle. “I think it may be too late to say possibly.” Quickly covering her mouth, she let out a low apology.

“You’d be the first to laugh at so much carnage.” He looked at her again, this time making sure to take in every inch of her appearance before narrowing his eyes and mockingly asking, “What was your name again?”

Her stomach dropped thinking about the amount of trouble her mouth could have just put her in. “Listen, I’m not looking for trouble. Either way, until the scene has been completely cleaned and cleared, no unauthorised persons are supposed to be here. Company policy.” A clear indication that she wanted him to leave before things escalated.

“I’m not here for trouble, Naya,” Julian spoke slowly, pulling a folded letter from his coat pocket, “But it seems you have a way of getting yourself into problems regardless.”

“What are you even going on about?” she frowned. It didn’t surprise her that he knew her name. Losing her status didn’t mean she was forgotten…just humiliated. Wiping her hands on her jumpsuit before taking the off-white piece of paper from him. It was bordered with gold and was it… No, couldn’t be… Floral scented?! Who even does that nowadays?

Dear Ms. Brentwood,

While it may seem like an unfortunate circumstance that you were placed alone to clean today’s crime scene, I assure you, this was no accident. For everything I do is perfectly planned and executed accordingly. While it is unfortunate that you had to be the one to clean up such a scenario, your work on this case is far from over. As such, please follow Mr. Thorne’s instruction to ensure your safety…that is, if you wish to remain alive.

Sincerely, Mr. X

She read it twice. Her throat dried up.

Now it was true that Naheima, her only work friend, had never called in sick. The agency also rarely placed someone solo on heavy clean-ups, especially not a rookie with shaky references and a once-famous last name. But she needed the job. Rent was due, and the universe didn’t care that she used to host charity galas. Her last client recognized her face from a tabloid cover and tipped her twenty dollars out of pity. Just how far from grace had she fallen?

It all made sense now.

She stared at Julian, heart pounding. “What do you want from me?”

He smiled like the devil in designer threads. “To offer you a way out. Or at least… a way forward.”