Chapter 1_ A Night Out
A Night Out
“Congratulations, man. In less than forty-eight hours, you’ll be a happily married man. Cheers to that!”
“Cheers!” the six men echoed, glasses clinking before they settled back on the velvet sofa.
The club pulsed with life, neon lights flickered, bodies moved in rhythm, and the bass trembled through the floor. On the stage, a woman in nothing but lace panties and a thin bra gripped the pole, her body glistening as she twisted and bent. Cheers rose from the men below. A rain of bills fluttered through the air.
Three women pushed through the smoky room and into the VIP section, balancing trays loaded with bottles of expensive liquor. They were half-naked, their confidence like perfume in the air. Without hesitation, they placed the trays down and slid into the seats between the men. Fingers brushed thighs. Lips grazed ears. The atmosphere thickened.
“Natalie,” one of the guys, clearly a regular, murmured to the woman on his right. “This is John. The guy I told you about.” He nodded toward the man in the middle. “His single days are numbered. After tonight, he’s officially off the market.”
“He’ll be fucking one woman for the rest of his life,” another teased, laughing.
“Or hers,” someone muttered, and they burst into laughter
“Fuck you guys,” John said, grinning as he swirled his drink. “I love Abigail. I don’t mind spending the rest of my life with her. Besides,” he smirked, “it’s not like I can’t have a little fun on the side.”
Their laughter grew louder, sloppier with drink.
“Johnny, Johnny, the lady lover,” one of them chanted. “Not even marriage to the prettiest woman from school will calm that damn thing down.”
“He’ll chase anything in a skirt,” another said, slapping his knee.
John just leaned back, eyes drifting toward the stage where the dancer met his gaze with a knowing smile. He lifted his glass in her direction. The music swelled.
********************
A woman climbed out of a beat-up pickup truck parked in front of a gated mansion. Her name was Maggie, though everyone in the neighborhood called her “the morning bird.” She always arrived before sunrise, arms full of groceries and the day’s duties.
She fumbled with her keys, pushed the iron gate open, and hurried toward the house. Inside, she set down her paper bags on the marble counter and tied an apron around her waist. The coffee beans went into the grinder. The rich aroma filled the air.
She glanced at her watch. 6:57 a.m. Almost time. By 6:59, the coffee was poured and steaming. At exactly 7:00, the alarm from upstairs began to blare, right on schedule.
Maggie wiped her hands on her apron, arranged the coffee and a plate of toast neatly on the tray, and walked toward the mains bedroom. The beeping grew louder with every step.
She stopped before the large mahogany door. Cleared her throat. Knocked softly. Nothing.
She tried again, louder this time. Still nothing.
Her brow furrowed. The alarm continued, sharp and insistent. It wasn’t like the doctor to sleep through it, or to be home so quietly after a night out. Usually, she’d hear his footsteps, or the groan of the shower, or the clatter of drawers, or the moans of a woman.
She hesitated, gripping the tray tighter.
“Sir?” she called. Her voice trembled slightly. “Doctor John? Your coffee is ready.”
Silence.
Her boss was grumpy most mornings, downright unbearable after a night of heavy drinking. The thought of facing him scared the hell out of her. She might hate working for the man, but she couldn’t afford to lose the job. The pay was good, and the bills never stopped coming.
Maggie shifted uneasily. A faint smell, something metallic and sour, drifted through the air, barely noticeable beneath the scent of roasted beans. Something did not feel, or smell, right.
She frowned. Knocked one more time.
Nothing.
His tie was lying across the chair, and the glass of whiskey was on the table when she entered the house. These were signs that he was home.
Heart thudding, she placed the tray gently on a nearby table. Her hand hovered over the doorknob, unsure.
Then, swallowing her fear, she turned it.
The door creaked open, releasing a faint draft that carried the smell further, sharper now, unmistakably metallic.
Maggie hesitated at the threshold. The curtains were still drawn, letting in only a dim, gray light that filtered through the edges. The alarm blared from the nightstand, its shrill tone slicing through the stillness.
“Sir?” she whispered again.
No answer.
Her eyes darted to the bed. The blanket was half-pulled, tangled in itself. At first, she thought he was sleeping, face buried in the pillow. But something was off, the stillness. Not a twitch, not a breath.
Picking up the tray, Maggie stepped closer, her shoes silent against the carpet. She placed the tray gently on the dresser. She opened the curtains to let in some light and reached for the alarm switch. The room fell into an uneasy quiet.
That was when she saw it, the hand.
It lay limp by the edge of the bed, fingers pale and stiff, the skin already losing warmth. Maggie’s stomach turned cold. She inched closer, her breathing shallow.
“Doctor John?”
The man on the bed didn’t move.
Her eyes traveled upward, bare chest, motionless. The sheets were stained a dull brown, as if coffee had spilled across them. But it wasn’t coffee.
And then she saw the strangest thing.
A paper bag. Covering his head entirely. Wrinkled. Soaked through at the base.
Maggie froze.
Her throat tightened, air stuck somewhere between her chest and her mouth. The smell - coppery, raw - filled her lungs. She stumbled backward, knocking over the tray. The coffee cup shattered, splattering dark stains across the polished floor.
For a moment, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. The only sound was her own trembling breath and the distant hum of the morning outside, birds chirping, a car engine starting, the world continuing as if nothing had happened.
Then, a scream tore through the mansion.
