Isla, ̶B̶r̶e̶a̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶&̶ ̶E̶n̶t̶e̶r̶i̶n̶g̶ Let's Call it Investigating

"Hey!" I yelled, pushing the door further open with my shoulder. "Hello! Anybody home?"

No response beyond the floor creaking under my heels and the door slamming the wall of a short, but narrow hallway. I ventured the three steps to peer around the corner. The studio apartment was empty. And smaller than mine.

"You prick!" I huffed, stomping my foot. "What if she was home?"

Greg leaned against the threshold, grinning. He twisted what looked like a piece of tape in his hand. "Nobody's opened that door since I was last here. Or else this would have been broken."

"You just carry tape around with you like that's normal?"

He shrugged. "What do you make of the place?"

"Come inside and see for yourself."

"We've been over this, woman. I can't enter unless—"

"Somebody invites you, yeah, well, consider yourself invited."

"Unless someone who lives here invites me in."

He sighed, shaking his head in obvious disappointment. I guess I hadn't been completely paying attention in the car.

"Fine! I'll—" I gestured broadly. "Look around, I guess."

Lily's broom closet of an apartment was sparsely furnished. Against one wall was a futon sofa covered in fancy pillows and a comforter, which likely also served as her bed. It was still folded up. An oversized stuffed dog—whatwas that, a husky? – was draped across the cushions. It wore a collar decoratedwith pink hearts. 

Beside the futon sat a bare, little coffee table. Though scattered around the floor of it was a blinking alarm clock, a set of pink coasters, a flamingo shaped lamp, a heap of travel magazines, and – I squinted. Were those nail clippings? Ew.

Some of the pages of those magazines were torn out. Must be how Lily formed the collage of beaches and ocean sunsets on the wall behind her futon. She'd drawn crude stick figures in some of them. A couple holding hands in Tahiti. A surfboard doodled in the sand in Hawaii. Next to the board somebody with garbage handwriting scribbled 'in pink <3'. 

Underneath the stack there was an awkwardly folded slip of torn notebook paper. Mi amor, was scrolled across it in big, looping cursive. I pocketed it.

One of her two windows had an air conditioner it in, wrapped in a trash bag to keep out the cold. I pulled back the floral curtain and found in that same window she'd hung bundles of drying flowers. Bouquets of roses, and lilies (cute... gag) bound in ribbons.

"Somebody was giving her flowers. She's got them drying in the window. Also looks like the coffee table was cleared off in a hurry. Oh, and you're still a prick."

Greg made a mmm noise and I turned to see him scribbling in a tiny notebook. Where'd he have the pocket space for all this crap?

"What else? Can you sense anything?"

No. No I could not. Bad energy and auras and telepathy were out of my wheelhouse. If there were no lingering ghosts, which there didn't appear to here, then no dice. Ugh, speaking of holy ghosts, prayer candles lined the sill of Lily's only other window. At least one of my grandmothers would be disappointed that I couldn't recognize which saint she burned the most.

Lily had a little TV and a DVD player with all her boxsets of Friends and other secondhand sitcoms on display. I recognized the fifty-cent resale label from the thrift store around the corner from the café. She was missing a few seasons of Lost. I couldn't find a router or cable box either.

"Yeah. I'm sensing she's broke."

A peek around and inside her half-sized fridge confirmed it. She kept an opened pallet of ramen noodles atop it and a rolled-up bag of Takis. Inside was all frozen pizzas and Lean Cuisines, a couple of yogurts, what appeared to be pastries snagged from the Bean & Brew, and some cans of wine. I cracked one.

"Fridge doesn't smell."

"Did you just take something from her fridge?"

"Yeah, it's helping me vibe with the room," I said between sips. A rosé. It was bitter.

Greg swore. I think. It wasn't in English. Or Spanish.

A single dirty spoon—rusting in the handle—lay in her sink. Plastic dishes were neatly stacked in the drying rack. Alongside, hello, a half full crystal wine glass? Or rather, a chalice? It was beautiful and engraved with trailing ivy and blooming roses, with a red gem encrusted into the golden stem. I sniffed it. Yep. Def booze still in there. I peeked into her recycling bin. Two-hundred-million-thousand cans of White Claw, a bottle of champagne, and glimmering shards of rose and ivy engraved crystal. There was a sticky, pink trail of dried wine snaking down the wall above the bin. I may have even spied a few shards of crystal on the floor.

I grabbed the intact glass and trotted down the little hall to Greg.

"Good gracious, woman, tell me you didn't pour yourself a glass?"

"No," I took a swig from my wine can. "Does this look expensive to you? The bottle of champagne in the trash looks expensive. The shards of another one of these glasses are right next to it. Looks like somebody's got a decent arm."

"Were two poured?" I nodded. "Any other of these in the cabinet?"

"No cabinets."

Greg then proceeded to lick his finger and run it around the rim of the glass. A faint, high pitched humming emerged. "Yeah," he shrugged. "Seems expensive. What else?"

I returned the glass to the sink. There was also no counter space (I know that life), but Lily had set herself up a round little café table. In the center of it was a goldfish bowl. "Her fish is dead."

The vamp peered around the edge of the doorframe for a better look. "How dead?"

I tapped the bowl. Bits of the little beta's fins flaked off. "Four days."

"That's specific."

Yikes, he was right. I took a sip of wine. "Just spit balling."

"Is there anything else useful you can find?"

"Broken champagne glasses for two and she hasn't been back to feed her fish in days, you don't think that's useful?"

"I think it's useful to know she left in a hurry. Her phone charging cable is in this dish by the door, and I see a pair of winter boots with gloves stuffed inside them drying on the welcome mat. If the girl is broke do you think she owns more than one pair of fur lined boots?"

"I wouldn't think she owned two wine glasses worth more than my apartment." I eyed the boots. "I mean, that's clearly fake fur, but no, she probably doesn't have a pair in every color."

And if you're so broke, honey, where'd you get that thousand dollars? A spike of guilt hit me. Clearly, barista barbie needed the money. Were the glasses heirlooms? Had she pawned more of the set for cash? Was she killed for it?

"Was she wearing them?"

"What?"

Greg gestured at the boots. "When you last saw her, was she wearing these? I need to know if she ever made it home that night."

The boots were basic but cute. Tall and black and fur lined. They didn't look like they were spotted with blood. Not like her puffer coat, as it soaked up the mess her insides made as they spilled out all over that pink sweater. I tried to picture her in these boots. All I saw was her bloody coat.

"Don't remember," I said. "I'm checking her closet."

Before Greg could ask any more annoying questions, I slipped into the closet. The vamp couldn't crane his neck to see the inside... what was actually a surprisingly generous space for a studio. It was a full-on walk in, and even led straight into her bathroom. Roomy, but it smelled sour, like wet laundry had been sitting in it, probably the source of Greg's foul odor

Her sink was littered with makeup. The clutter was everywhere. I counted at least ten tubes of lipstick – bright pinks, sultry reds, flamboyant blues and purples – spilling out of several bags. The mirror was dotted with mascara and eye liner smudges. A gold, glittery shadow was open and dried up in the sink.

On the edge of the sink was a high-end make-up mirror, the kind with lights built in. It was pretty nice actually. Oh, and her styling tools. The curling iron plunked into a basket above the toilet was worth more than my cell phone. So was that pearl and gold hairpin. A bag of auburn hair bundles were tucked into the basket too.

This was weird. The Lily I saw wasn't wearing any of this stuff. Though, if I recall, she was actively ruining a nice manicure in my apartment.

"Isla? You alright?"

I took a sip of wine and ventured back into the closet.

"Fine," I answered, pulling open a dresser drawer.

Her underwear drawer was a mix of practical, understated panties, rolled socks, and neon thongs, fish nets, and lacy bras. Nice. Every babe deserves cute lingerie. Atop the dresser was a music box. I opened it. The ballerina inside was stuck and stuttering in her spin. A golden ring with an absolutely massive red gem in there was looped around the ballerina's neck. Oh, and also it's where she stored her nipple tassels.

Get it, girl. Did not expect that from you.

"What are you doing in there? Have you found—"

Greg stopped, abruptly.

You know what I didn't find, Greggy? My thousand dollars. Or any cash. Among her panties was a cocktail napkin with a bar logo, some nonsense scribbled on the back. I wrapped the ring in it and dropped the bundle into my purse. Listen, I know it's wrong to creep through another girl's panty drawer but, eh, screw it. Maybe I could pawn the ring and at least keep my apartment if I never got my money back.

I returned to the bathroom to continue my snooping. The smell was stronger in here. I pulled back the shower curtain, for a look, and bit back a scream.

The bottom of Lily's tub was coated in the dark, dried stains of what definitely wasn't chocolate syrup. A pile of soggy, pink and brown tinted towels was piled at one end. An abused Swiffer mop was tossed inside too, the single pad still stuck to it dyed brown.

Fuck.

I popped back out into the main room, paying closer attention to the floor this time. Sure enough, the old wood was more polished and shiny in a rather large spot surrounding her kitchenette. But it wasn't totally clean, you know? Faint splashes of dark brown and red were still visible. Like somebody started a cleanup, realized it was too much work, and gave up halfway through.

Amateurs.

I looked again at the wall above the trash can. Flecks of a dark red mingled with the pale wine stain on the dingy, off-white paint, splattered nearly up to the ceiling.

"Um, Greg?"

"Oh no," Greg's voice floated in, too loudly. "Lily had somebody else over, didn't she, miss!" Shit, we'd been had. We needed to get out of here. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I wrestled my phone out of out my clutch and opened the camera. But... wait, did Greg actually need to know about this? Lily's wounds occurred before she went missing, after all. Of course, however she got hurt like that no doubt had something to do with how she wound up at my place to start. But... but did Greg the vampire PI need to know she was wounded before I saw her? Would that come back to bite me (ha)? He'd ask questions, like, why didn't I call an ambulance or something if I saw she was hurt? Knowing she was wounded might even be worth an official Inquiry, if Greg or even his client decided to actually inform the Magistrate.

"With the other man?" Greg lamented.

Ah, screw it. I snapped some photos of the gory tub and the rest of Lily' place, and scurried my ass out of there.