Page 32 of Dirty Tricks

Once through the entrance, I take a moment to adjust to the décor, admiring the labour that must have gone into the extensive decorations, smiling until I glance down at my shirt, streaked with blood.

My red mask is gone. Lost god-knows-where in the tangled events of the evening.

But I decide it doesn’t matter. If there was ever a night for bloodstains to go unnoticed, it’s this one.

I take a staircase to the upper level, then scan the room, searching in vain for any sign of Lexa’s dark braids. Her friends are over by the bar, one looking green and the other struggling to keep her upright.

No sign of my girl. I turn to the right and walk along a corridor, head attuned for any sound that whispers of her presence.

Around the corner, a dog stands outside the door at the end of the hallway, ears raised on alert. It doesn’t appear vicious, but I still keep my distance until the last moment. When I twist the doorhandle, it won’t budge. Locked from the inside.

I press my ear against the door, the metal cool to the touch, old paint—probably lead based—flaking away in long strips at the edges, bubbling in the middle.

There’s no reason to think she’s in there but my soul screams that it’s true.

I yank at the handle again, kicking at the base when it doesn’t give. I can’t pick locks and have no clue where a spare set of keys would hide out, providing there is one.

The dog nudges the back of my knees with its head, then skitters away when I try to give him a pat, slinking along the corridor and out of sight.

I move back to the bar area, scanning the crowds for someone who looks like they might be in charge, someone with authority, someone who could give me a key to the locked door.

As I pass through more and more rooms, finding nothing but revellers, I try to reassure myself that there might be nothing behind the metal door. It could be marked with a pentagram for fun; perhaps a room where the property owner stored their valued items.

But the logic behind the attempt falters the longer I go without finding Lexa anywhere else. We connected. I felt it to my very soul, and I saw the same reflected in her eyes. She wouldn’t have gone somewhere with Finn after that, played along at still being his girlfriend.

And my worry increases. I know from my mum’s history, the most dangerous time for a woman in a bad relationship is when she tries to leave.

You don’t know that it’s bad.

Except I do and there’s no one more to blame than myself. My mind fills with the recording from the cafeteria. One glance from Todd and her body radiated tension, vibrating with distress until she bolted from the room.

The images fill me with panic. Something iswrong.This is myjob,far more than the work I’m paid to do. I swore to keep her safe.

“Excuse me?” I snag a nearby man in his thirties, thinking that’s as good a place to start as any. “Are you the owner?”

He jerks away. “Fuck off.”

My aggression levels climb in tandem with my anxiety. It takes far more self-control than it should not to punch him. But I move onto another likely target, this time clutching their upper arm so they can’t leave as easily. “Do you know the owner?” When the stranger stares blankly at me, I add, “There’s someone in danger. I need to get into a locked room.”

They shake their head. “I’m just here with my mates. Buggered if I know who’s running it.”

And when I turn to ask another partygoer, he calls over to a friend. “Hey, Derek. Who’s throwing this party?”

The query echoes around the room but returns to me with no one the wiser.

“Sorry,” the guy says, shrugging before he makes a beeline to the bar.

Downstairs, I try the doors on the ground floor, hoping to find an office, a reception area, something of use. All I find is an unattended cloakroom where a few partygoers have trusted their jackets to luck.

Nothing else. Nothing helpful.

I move outside, picking up speed, jogging back to the car. There’s a spare tyre and changing kit in the boot but I doubt it’s worth the trouble of moving the body to get it out.

The hammer. I fetch it from the back seat and heft it in my hand. Great for threatening someone or slamming it into a rando’s head, less likely to get me through a locked door. I toss it back and slam the door, staring around the grounds before I turn back to the building.

With each second, my pulse increases. Adrenaline pumps through my system, needing an outlet, begging for someone to fight. My eyes feel too large, bugging from my head as I scan the outside of the building, trying to match it to the internal map.

There’s a window, halfway up the side. My spatial awareness insists it must lead into the locked room.

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