When Sheets Talked, I Stopped a Killer

Chapter 1

The fifth year I worked as a hotel cleaning lady, I woke up to some crazy ability.

I could hear bedsheets talk.

At first, all they did was complain about getting wine spilled on 'em or getting burned by cigarette butts.

Then this couple checked out with this huge suitcase. Bigger than normal.

The man was wearing sunglasses. He casually slipped me two hundred bucks as a tip.

He pointed at the half-open door behind him and smirked.

"Ma'am, my girlfriend's a heavy sleeper. Give it a little while before you go in."

But the second I took that cash, I heard the dirty sheets on my cart let out this terrified wail.

"So heavy! Why's he pouring that red water all over me? And that lady's already been packed into the big suitcase! She's cut up into pieces, and they ain't gonna fit back together!"

The guy was still standing there, casual as could be, waiting for the elevator.

My hands went cold. I gripped the handle of my cart so hard my knuckles went white.

"Hold on, sir. I think you left your ID with me."

The man's hand froze midair, reaching for the elevator button. He turned his head, and even behind his sunglasses, I could feel him sizing me up.

"Ma'am, you must be mistaken." He walked toward me, step by step, his leather shoes making no sound on the carpet.

"My ID's right here in my pocket. How could it be with you?"

His hand slid inside his jacket. Something bulky was tucked in there, and it sure as hell wasn't a wallet.

Cold sweat trickled down my spine.

I forced myself to reach into my apron pocket.

All I had in there was a discarded key card from some other guest who'd checked out.

"Right... right here."

I fumbled the card out, trembling, not daring to look up.

The man saw the plastic card in my hand and let out a laugh.

"Ma'am, that's a key card. You can't even read?"

He stepped in close. I caught a faint metallic smell on his breath.

"Or are you playing for time?"

His hand was still inside his jacket, gripping something solid.

"You cleaners got a lot of nerve."

"What the hell's going on here! Cart blocking the whole hallway! You wanna get fired or what!"

A loud voice boomed from around the corner.

It was the hotel manager, Baldy Morrison, stomping over with his beer belly leading the way.

He shoved my cart hard. The wheels scraped against the wall with a nasty screech.

"Mr. Morrison, I—"

"Shut up!"

Baldy Morrison didn't even let me get a word in.

"How many times do I gotta tell you? Move the cart when guests are passing through!"

He turned to the man and slapped on this greasy smile.

"Oh, sir, I'm so sorry! The staff here got no manners. She didn't hurt you, did she?"

The man pulled his hand out of his jacket and patted Baldy Morrison on the shoulder, real casual.

"Nah, it's fine. This lady might just need her eyes checked. She looks like she's working hard. Don't be too rough on her."

Baldy Morrison nodded like a bobblehead, then spun around and pointed at my nose, screaming.

"Did you hear that! The gentleman's being generous! You left your cart blocking the elevator. That's a huge hit to the hotel's image! I'm docking your two-hundred-dollar attendance bonus for this month!"

I bit down so hard on my lip I almost drew blood.

Two hundred bucks.

That was the money I'd earned working night shifts for a whole month—the shift I didn't dare call in sick for even when I had a fever.

And it was also the interest payment I was supposed to make to the collectors tomorrow.

"Mr. Morrison, I wasn't blocking anything, he was—"

"You still talking back!"

He ripped the name tag off my chest.

"Say one more word and I'll take your whole base salary too! Get the hell out of here and clean room 801!"

The elevator dinged.

The man dragged that oversized suitcase inside. It was so heavy the wheels left deep grooves in the carpet.

Right before the doors slid shut, he waved at me.

"Keep up the good work, ma'am."

Baldy Morrison was still yapping away beside me.

I crushed that discarded key card in my palm till it bent.

My old phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was a text message from the loan sharks: Five grand, principal plus interest, due by noon tomorrow. Or we'll pay your daughter's company a visit.

I shoved the dirty sheets into the bottom bin of my cart, hard. The fabric writhed in the bag, terrified.

"Oh my God! So scary! Underneath the bottom of that suitcase, it's all money! Stack after stack of old bills, just lying under all those pieces! So much money, and it's all covered in blood!"

My hands froze on the cart. Something inside my head just snapped.

Yeah. My daughter had trusted the wrong guy, her ex, and now she was drowning in debt.

Tomorrow, the collectors were gonna ruin her.

And right now, in that suitcase, was a killer's fortune.

If Baldy Morrison was gonna take away my only way out... Then I'd go take it back myself.

I ripped off my apron and tossed it on the cart.

Then I grabbed the master key card the cleaners all used, and ducked into the staff corridor toward the B3 parking garage.