Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 73846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Okay,” I said, feeling everyone’s eyes land on me. “Right, okay. Work. Great.” I blinked, trying to shake off the sensation of having ice-cold water dumped on you out of nowhere.
Kimmy’s gaze narrowed. Amelia called me from down the path. I used that as an excuse to evacuate the premises before any more bombs were dropped. Whatever. Kimmy could have my show. It had to go on, after all. And if—when—I decided to come out of my hiatus, Kimmy likely would offer a helping hand back into the ring.
At least I fucking hoped so.
“We’ve got to go before Juno Pine’s gets packed,” I said, not wanting to carry on this conversation much longer. “Good luck at my show. I’m sure you’ll kill it.”
“I’m sure I will, too,” Kimmy replied with a slanted bright blue-lipped smirk.
9
Ryan Diaz
The Queen’s Throne had been turned into a buzzing hive of forensic detectives, local police, and a few suited folks who looked awfully like FBI agents. Two entire days since the horrific night had passed, but the investigations were only getting started. It made the normally light and colorful space a dreary cave of questions and morbid theories. Jen was there to greet me in a pair of wrinkled gray sweats and an old T-shirt with her favorite country band rocking out on the front. Her hair, usually in shiny auburn waves that cascaded down her shoulders, was pulled up into a loose ponytail. She stepped over the tape as I was giving my identification to one of the officers on the scene.
“Morning, Ry.” Her face reflected the zero hours of sleep she’d gotten, and I wished I could offer something more besides a reciprocal “Morning,” except that was really all I had.
For now, at least.
I followed Jen into the bar, dodging a couple of plainclothes officers carrying out a barstool wrapped in plastic. All the lights were on, which gave everything a fluorescent glow that added to the eerie feeling in the air.
“You told me you’re investigating Elijah’s stalker situation, right?” she asked over her shoulder. I gave an affirmative “Yup” and scanned everything as we crossed the main dance floor. Seeing the entire space lit up helped highlight things I might have missed that first night, like the supply closet door that had blended in perfectly with the dark walls, the mural of a vibrant rainbow-colored crowd dancing and painted over the seams of the door.
“Does that lead anywhere?” I asked.
“Just a closet. There’s a window in there, looks out to the parking lot.”
I opened the door and looked inside, the scent of bleach and air fresheners hitting me. Above a shelf full of cleaning products sat a narrow slit of a window, not nearly big enough for anyone to get in through or out of. My thought was that the stalker and the Pegasus both had to have entered and left the club without too many people noticing them, but this supply closet wasn’t the answer I was looking for.
I wasn’t here for the Pegasus, either. Zane and Austin had taken point on that case, bringing in Alejandro and another detective set to join Stonewall. My focus would be solely on Elijah and his stalker.
Closing the door, I followed Jen to the dressing room. The cops had locked the entire area down the night it all happened, so I’d been going off Elijah’s eyewitness accounts. Initially, I did have an itch of suspicion toward Elijah in regards to the Pegasus murder, my detective instincts quick to suspect anyone at the scene of the crime. But he had been surrounded by drag queens and bar patrons the entire night and was onstage during the time of the attack, so I quickly struck him off the list.
His stalker though—that list wasn’t a long one, but it was a crucial one.
Elijah described the bone-chilling message written in crimson-red lipstick on his mirror. He tried offering up whatever helpful things he could remember, but it was important for me to visit the scene of the crime myself. I hoped that maybe the stalker left something behind that Elijah overlooked.
Seeing the scene for myself didn’t help bolster those hopes.
First off, the dressing room was pretty much a carbon copy of the supply closet I’d just looked at. Only one queen could get ready at a time, which was fine, but it didn’t leave much room for evidence to be found. To get to the room, you had to get up on the stage and go through the curtains and down a tiny hallway.
“Is this the only way to get in here?” I asked, stepping inside the windowless dressing room.
“Yup, just that little hall.”
At what point during the night could someone have crept up onstage without being noticed and sneak into the dressing room to leave the message?
“Who has access to this room?”