The Perfect Impression by Blake Pierce
PROLOGUE
Everybody called him Tex.
His real name was Esteban Mejada. But because the room service waiter had a southern drawl, someone had given him the nickname, even though he’d said repeatedly that he was from Louisiana, not Texas. It only took him a few weeks of working at the island hotel to discover that both the drawl and the nickname, along with a few other factors, actually helped him when it came to tips.
He got off the elevator, ready to deliver a tray of champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries to a guest waiting for him to serve them, and service her. Saturday nights almost always involved extra services. He wondered what his tips would be like if he had a flatter Midwestern accent.
Tex rounded the corner and headed down the hallway. He was halfway to the guest’s room when he heard a bloodcurdling scream. Moments later, a woman burst out of a room at the end of the hall wearing a pink jogging suit with several wine stains on it. Her eyes were wild and her face was filled with panicked intensity. She saw him and ran over, babbling incoherently.
“I can’t understand you,” he said.
The woman slid down the wall and slumped to the ground, so that she was seated cross-legged on the floor.
“What happened?” he tried again, kneeling down and placing the tray down beside her. She didn’t respond, only pointing at the door she’d come out of before beginning to cry softly.
Though his heart was beating rapidly, Esteban stood, gulped hard, and walked toward the door, which was slightly ajar. His own breath was heavy in his ears as he stood there, willing himself to take one more step. Finally, he nudged it all the way open with his shoe.
The room was dimly lit, with only a lamp in the corner of the room offering any illumination. He didn’t immediately see anything that would have caused such an intense reaction in the woman. His eyes adjusted, revealing a form on the bed. He couldn’t tell much more than that.
As the powerful feeling that something was horribly amiss in the room began to overtake him, he pulled a tissue out of his pocket, instinctively sensing that he should avoid getting his fingerprints on anything. He flicked on the light switch near the door. The second he did, the form became clear.
A woman was lying on her back in the middle of the bed. But that alone wasn’t what caused terror and disgust to well up in his chest.
Her eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling. She was naked and the sheets near her body were soaked in blood.
Sticking out of her chest was a knife.
The same one he had dropped off an hour ago, along with the rest of the room service meal she had requested.