Alibi
1081 Words
ELARA
I smiled at my phone. It was lying on the bathroom counter of the hotel room while I styled my hair back.
Sounds like someone had a good time.
"Sophie?" I called.
"Yeah...oh," she groaned.
My smile deepened.
"We don't have to discuss now if you're in the middle of something."
I heard some shuffling.
"Oh, okay! We'll talk la-wait."
There was a long pause and I wondered if she was still on the line.
"What the hell Elara," she shouted from her end.
Before she could say anything else I hung up and resumed what I was doing.
I was still smiling when I walked back into the room and reached for my phone. Two news alerts sitting at the top of my screen. I almost scrolled past them.
BILLIONAIRE VICTOR ASHFORD FOUND DEAD IN HOTEL SUITE. MURDER SUSPECTED.
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
I read it again. Then I clicked the article and read the whole thing the way I read everything, every word, every detail. Victor Ashford, found unresponsive in his suite at the Halcyon Hotel late Saturday night. Murder suspected. Investigation ongoing.
The Halcyon Hotel.
This hotel.
I set my phone down on the duvet and stared at nothing in particular. Victor Ashford was dead. The man I had spent six weeks following through shell companies and offshore accounts was dead in the same building I had slept in last night.
I didn't know how to feel about that so I didn't feel anything. I just sat there and let the information settle.
My phone rang. Sophie.
"Elara." Her voice was already three pitches higher than normal. "Please tell me you're okay. I just saw the news and I know we were at that hotel last night and I left you there alone—"
"Sophie." I kept my voice even. "I'm fine."
"You're fine? A man was murdered in the same hotel—"
"I'm fine," I said again. "I didn't know him. There's nothing to worry about."
She went quiet for a moment. I could hear her deciding whether to believe me.
"Okay," she said finally. "But call me the second anything feels off."
"I will."
I hung up.
My phone rang again almost immediately. Unknown number.
"Hello, Miss Elara Vance?"
"Yes. Is there a problem?"
"This is Detective Marcus Webb." A pause, measured and deliberate. "I'm calling regarding the death of Victor Ashford. We've been made aware of a private investigation you were conducting into Mr. Ashford's financial activities. We'd like you to come in for questioning this morning."
I said nothing for a moment.
Six weeks of careful, quiet, untraceable work. No firm affiliation. No paper trail connecting me to anyone. And somehow within hours of Victor Ashford turning up dead a detective was calling my personal number.
"Of course," I said. "Can I ask how you found out about the investigation?"
"We can discuss that when you come in Miss Vance. I'd appreciate it sooner rather than later."
He hung up.
I put my phone down and sat very still.
I was a forensic accountant. I followed evidence for a living. I knew exactly how to build a case and I knew exactly what mine looked like from the outside right now. Private investigation into the victim. No alibi. Present at the same hotel the night he died. Webb didn't need much more than that to make my life very difficult very quickly.
I went through every angle the way I always did, methodically, one by one. I could go in for questioning alone and say as little as possible. But with no alibi and a clear motive Webb would keep pulling until something gave. I could get a lawyer but that took time I didn't have and would signal guilt before I'd even sat down across from him. I could call the one person whose name kept surfacing in Victor's financial trail and ask questions I probably shouldn't be asking. But that thread had gone cold and whoever cleaned it had been very thorough.
Every angle led to the same wall.
I looked at the window. Sunday morning outside, slow and ordinary, the kind of day that had no idea it was supposed to be catastrophic.
Someone knocked at my door.
I crossed the room and opened it.
Cassian Holt was leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, looking like he had all the time in the world. Dark eyes. Unreasonably composed for 8am on a Sunday.
"You've seen the news," he said. It wasn't a question.
"How did you find my room?"
He ignored that. "Detective Webb called you this morning."
I kept my expression completely neutral. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You were investigating Victor Ashford." He said it without drama, like he was reading it off a page. "You have no alibi. You were in this hotel the night he died. And whoever tipped Webb off about your investigation made sure you'd be the first person he called."
"Mr. Holt—"
"I'm in the same position." He said it simply, without flinching. "Public feud. Private meeting with Victor a week ago that didn't end well. Same hotel last night." He paused. "I have a proposal that solves your problem and mine."
"I'm not interested."
He looked at her for a moment. Not surprised. Not bothered. Like her refusal was just a step in a process he had already mapped out. Then he reached into his pocket and held out a business card between two fingers.
"If you change your mind, call that number." He said it the same way he said everything else. Like the outcome was already decided.
He turned and walked away.
I stood in the doorway and watched him go. Then I closed the door.
I sat down slowly in the leather chair by the window. I looked down at my hands resting on the armrest. My sweaty palms made a squeaky noise as I pulled my hand off the leather surface.
I wished I was only sweating because I was nervous.
I turned the card over in my fingers. Stared at it for a long moment. Then I went through the angles one more time, every alternative, every other possible way out.
There wasn't one.
I picked up my phone and dialed.
He answered on the first ring.
"I'll accept your deal."
"I'll send you an address. Be there by six." The line went dead.
- Writer
