When Sheets Talked, I Stopped a Killer

Chapter 2

The lights on B3 were half dead. The whole place smelled like moldy engine oil.

I crouched low, hiding behind a pile of discarded hotel linens.

"Here he comes, here he comes!"

An old torn sofa cover by my feet shouted at the top of its lungs.

"The killer just got out of the elevator from Zone B! He's in the blind spot behind the load-bearing wall!"

I followed the sofa cover's directions, creeping forward.

A black van with no plates was parked behind a pillar.

The man was struggling to hoist that oversized suitcase into the trunk.

It was too heavy. He tried twice and couldn't get it up.

The trunk's hydraulic arm let out an ugly groan and jammed.

The man cursed under his breath. He set the suitcase down and walked around to the front of the van to grab a tool.

This was my only chance.

If he got in that van, I'd never see that money.

And tomorrow, my daughter's life would be ruined by those loans.

I dropped to the ground and crawled forward, inch by inch.

Filthy water from the floor soaked through my pant legs.

I pulled a bottle of heavy-duty acidic cleaner from my pocket.

The strong stuff the hotel used for deep cleaning—always had to be diluted before use.

I unscrewed the cap and poured it along the metal zipper of the suitcase.

The acid hit the metal and white smoke started hissing up. The zipper sizzled and corroded on contact.

I scrambled back behind the load-bearing wall.

The man came back with a wrench.

He fiddled with the trunk latch for a second, then grabbed the suitcase handle and heaved.

The acid-weakened zipper couldn't take the weight.

It burst open.

A big lump of black plastic wrapped in dark red liquid slid out through the gap.

The stench of blood hit me right in the face.

"s**t!"

The man's face went pale. He shoved the plastic back in with his knee, pushing hard.

But the zipper was completely wrecked. It wouldn't close.

And worse, the sound of an engine echoed through the garage entrance. Another guest was driving in.

The man panicked and laid the suitcase flat.

No way he was getting it back in the van now. One wrong move and the pieces and cash would spill everywhere.

He gritted his teeth, stripped off his jacket, and wrapped it around the busted seam.

Forgetting the van entirely, he hauled the battered box and headed for the elevator again.

He was heading back inside to fix this.

But when he passed the elevator in Zone B, he stopped. He sniffed the air. That sharp acidic smell hadn't fully faded.

The elevator doors reflected his twisted, grimacing face.

He didn't press the garage button.

Instead, he turned his head and followed the smell.

His eyes locked onto the cleaning cart still sitting in the corner of the lobby, untouched.