On her mind, she divided the room in quarters and started vacuuming part by part, from the surface of the carpet to the area underneath it, vacuuming everything under the bed and above the mattress, removing every little trace of her being there. Distracted by her activity, she didn’t take note of how long it had taken her to finish the task, but when she finished it, she felt the room was near inhospitable being so clean and sterilized.
Georgia walked to the wardrobe and removed from the top shelf the basic change of sheets and bedspreads that normally stayed there, just in case.
As an applied maid, she covered the bed again, adorning it with the folded quilt and the two pillows purposely arranged so that nothing looked too perfect.
Now that it was all cleaned and changed, Georgia should follow with the second part of her project. She took the evidence boxes and spread them around the room, without a right pattern, slightly trying to imitate the way she recalled seeing them there. She dispersed the papers, crumpling some in the process, making sure the ones stained by Monica’s blood stood on top, on the bed, some even partially under the bed.
When she finished with the papers, Georgia used her own hands and legs to rumple them against the mattress and sheets, creating disturbances on the bed, as if a struggle had really happened in there. She needed attention to details, lacking that had almost cost her her own sanity hours before.
Anthon killed his wife in the bedroom, after a fight, and took her to the bathroom to kill himself, too. She repeated to herself a few times that false story, trying to believe and think the way everything was supposed to be like if that were true.
From behind the balcony curtains, Georgia removed the metallic frame from the table she had hidden there before when she cleaned the room for the first time. She put the structure at the same place it used to be and, dragged the black suitcase to the designated area, she poured the glass all over, using her hands protected by the leather to spread the shards, emulating the shattering the way it had happened before. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it would give the idea right away when the police arrived. She took care in leaving the smaller shards in the center, while the bigger ones she placed around, trying to recall the right place she had picked some of those pieces. When she finished, Georgia moved back to the blood bucket, removing the wet dirty towel from it.
She had used the towel to clean Monica’s blood from the floor and that gathered blood would help now. With towel in hands and almost lying on the floor, Georgia let the blood drip and run through the glass, the carpet, the floor. She even sprayed some drops against the wall, just for the drama. Pushing back in her memory the place Monica had died at, Georgia got into position and let the blood run from the pressed towel, creating a puddle slightly similar to the one that had been created previously by the corpse.
With the towel, she also pulled the blood, creating a dragging path to the bathroom, as if something – or Monica – had been moved that way, and she had, before the first cleaning.
On the bathroom sink, she cleaned the bucket, which she would toss to the floor to fake the sudden break of the table, and washed the towel just on the surface, to remove the excess blood and twisting it hard, item she would also put on the plastic bag, along with the other evidences she would have to take with her.
The details were innumerous; the possibilities of mistakes, countless. Georgia laughed at the irony of fearing some memory slip, word that had become ordinary to her. While some struggled to recover it and some tried to forget them for good, Georgia wished she could only trust the tangibility of hers so that she wouldn’t get lost by and amidst them.
When she came out of the bathroom, carrying along the bucket and the dirty towel, she also brought a towel stained with dark spots she had also used before. Georgia put both towels inside the black plastic bag and threw it inside the suitcase of the same color, laying the bucket on the floor, faking a fall. Around her, although it all looked chaotic, things felt right. Perhaps a few more broken stuff, but she wanted to avoid overdoing it.
From the bag, she took a piece of paper folded in half, a rip that had come from one of the reports, whose protected surface showed ink tracks composing a simple and hurried sentence: I had to go, cya soon. Anthon’s handwriting, messy and poorly outlined starred the paper sheet with the message he had left her, traits of his personality screaming from his writing style.
She put the paper onto the rack, beside the dirty and empty glass of whiskey, while she dialed some number on her cellphone.
Sticking the top of the phone under the wool cap, she waited for the call to be picked, also removing from her bag a magnetic keycard from the hotel, the room key. On the black and gold card, the golden printed numbers identified the room she had stayed with Anthon for the last few weeks, booked under his name: 1304.
“Hi, I’m about to check out and I ended up forgetting to request housekeeping.” She said on her phone, while opening Monica’s bag on the bed. “Yes, it’s just that the other girl told me that there was some urgency regarding the room availability, so I just wanted to let you know so that you could send someone… Room 1305. Yes. Thank you.”
Georgia turned the call off and put the phone into her pocket, at the same time she let her keycard into Monica’s bag. Putting the bag back on the bed, Georgia miscalculated the distance and it dropped, spreading all its contents and the card on the floor. She shrugged. Somehow it made it all look more natural.
Now she had to finish the rest. The bedspread and sheets were already together behind the door, which was a positive side already calculated. Georgia zipped her black suitcase, with the bag full of evidence and DNA beside the portable vacuum, and slid it to the door too, grabbing her own handbag in sequence. Near the balcony, another suitcase stood, a more sophisticated and wide model, where her clothes and other necessary stuff were kept, ready to leave too. She slid the suitcase on its wheels to the door and waited, while capturing Anthon’s phone, that had been abandoned at the rack during her cleaning.
With care, she opened the door, making sure to place her suitcase as a support to prevent it from closing again.
The hotel hallway, simple, seemed haunted. The dark carpet created a unique texture when it met the detailed and pale walls. The low and weak lights from the corridor gave it a more sophisticated tone, albeit somehow terrifying when voices seemed to echo all around. They didn’t come from the rooms, but from the ladies that had just arrived with a cleaning cart right in front of the next-door room.
Room 1305.
Winter season, holidays, guests. Georgia knew they would be in a hurry, mainly when the hotel was already almost completely packed. She had done the reservation and extended it, therefore her certainty of them wanting it free as soon as possible. The holiday season was coming, many people visiting their families, she knew that hotel, that was the reason she dragged Anthon there.
And now the maids got ready to clean a room she hadn’t even used, just ordered some food in random days, mostly when Anthon was out, just to confirm her being there. Food, those, she spread around the carpet and bed, just to make the well-trained maids’ jobs a little more difficult.
The cart stood in front of the room, as usual, and the women seemed busy in there. Georgia returned to 1304 and grabbed the pile of bed sheets she had and needed to get rid from, stretching her neck out to check the movement outside before venturing herself into the hallway. With light and calculated steps, she walked the short distance between the room and tossed the sheets and spreads inside one of the collecting bags placed in front of the cart. In that same discreet and silent way, she went back, a trajectory made easy and soft by the carpet that concealed her footsteps and the sound of her heels.
Once more inside the room, she put her handbag on the top of the red large suitcase and put the phone there, removing a pair of big sunglasses as she did. Although it was the middle of the night, she would put them, at least it would take the focus from her face and details that could somehow get in her way
. With Anthon’s phone in hands, she recalled she couldn’t unlock it without his fingerprints, but then again, she recalled that there was no need of unlocking it to do an emergency call.
The digital keypad came up and Georgia pressed the “Emergency” zone, unlocking another keypad, this time for calls. Without rush, she dialed the three-digit number everyone in the world knew how to use, and waited until the phone indicated the call was on.
“911, what’s your emergency?” The voice asked and Georgia didn’t answer, leaving the phone on the floor, near the bathroom.
Now she was ready to leave. The handbag was hanging on her right shoulder, which also held her own phone and the next-door room keycard. The black suitcase was put on top of the red one, and she dragged the larger outside the room, closing the door when she left.
It was the end. When the door clicked shut, Georgia felt relief followed by a brief explosion of anxiety inside her chest that felt like an annoying burning. Had she gotten everything? Had she left something important behind?
No. It was all right on track.
She could take the elevators, but then she would have to pass by the maids and she didn’t want someone to recognize her. The emergency exist that would take her to the stairs was right there and, on the floor below, she could take the way as usual.
She had to run. It wouldn’t take long until someone at the station pulled the data from the number that had called and recognized Anthon’s number, sending the cavalry after him. They’d track the device, check the last given address, they would soon come to the urgent rescue. And the precinct in which he used to work was right over there, two blocks away.
Georgia wondered about the implications of that scene. They’d find Monica’s text messages, the threats and the encounter. They’d find drugs in his body and the exam he had requested silence upon. They would maybe even find the bottle of whiskey abandoned inside the rented car that should probably be in front of the hotel. Someone would soon call it a murder-suicide, but few would have the guts to chase after a deeper investigation. Few would have the abilities for that, let alone the ability to connect the right dots and coming to the conclusion that, at first, wouldn’t even seem to make sense. Nobody would be able to put it all together, lest of all have the wisdom to connect it all to an unknown woman until getting to her. No. She had nothing to worry about. It was all right, the utmost righteousness she could ever achieve. Including that marriage housed underneath glass ceiling, a marriage that would result in death regardless, either caused or expected, murder or suicide, even if the suicide was not even at all physical, but social.
She wouldn’t try and convince herself she had done the right thing. Monica’s death, however, was the one that actually affected her still. She had nothing to be blamed on, Monica was the one who shouldn’t have meddled as she did.
The emergency staircase descend revealed itself harder than the expected, considering now the weight of the baggage and her overly busy hands. The lower floor was desert and it was no problem finding an elevator, all reasons aside, nobody would ask about her presence in there in a place filled with unknown people coming in and out all the time.
When the elevator doors opened again, she inhaled the fresh and perfumed air from the hotel main lounge. There was noise, although it was too early for that, and the reception counter had a somehow cool operation. The bar, however, was busy, perhaps a party that would still last a few more hours until sunrise, which was not that far.
Dragging her baggage across the lounge, she stopped when she reached the counter, discreetly smiling at the delicate receptionist of abundant dark hair that seemed to be too busy in a phone call. Georgia tossed her keycard on the counter, without smiling now.
“I’d like to check out.” She told the girl when she finally dropped the call. “I called earlier to inform I’d leave. Room 1305.”
Despite not wanting to cause a deeper impression that could make her someone worth of being remembered by anyone, Georgia felt this huge urge to be polite and pleasant. If she exaggerated it, discomfort would brand itself into the girl’s memory. If she were too dry and rude, it would too. From behind the dark glasses, she watched as the girl typed information into her computer.
“Georgia Meade?” She asked just to confirm.
“Yes.” Georgia replied, distractively tapping her fingers onto the counter.
“Done. The final amount will be charged to the account given during check-in, I just need you to sign a form.”
Georgia nodded and waited, watching a young couple that tried to do their reservation with another receptionist, a guy.
“You’re lucky, one room just got free.” The boy announced, with a beautiful smile across his face, to the couple’s amusement. “They’re just finishing the preparation, but it’s one of our best suites.”
The 1305, Georgia concluded.
The girl held on, while the printer gathered courage to work and eject the form Georgia had to fill in. The paper got spat out and Georgia’s hand jumped towards the customized hotel pen offered by the girl, but her expectations were frustrated when the girl started to fill in some information herself.
“I hope you enjoyed the stay.”
Georgia saw, in there, her window.
“It was alright,” She said, keeping her voice monotonous, “in spite of the couple next door.” She lowered her voice and slightly leaned against the counter. “If in such a well-structured hotel they manage to be so noisy, imagine…”
The girl laughed, embarrassed.
“Perhaps it would be good to request security.” Georgia suggested, returning to her previous position while observing the other receptionist deliver keycards with the number 1305 in it to the couple. One of the cards, by the way, was the one she had just returned.
And she noticed, just then, how life was just like a hotel. Unknown people who come out of nowhere and ask for shelter that, most of the times, is offered without nothing expected in return. And that unknown could be the perfect guest or just a tragedy waiting to happen. However being a tragedy, the unknown would leave or be removed, but it would all go back to perfect functionality hours or days later. It would all go on as it did before, proving that the presence of a guest, either good or bad, does not mean that much when you need to keep moving on and ahead with your shelter. It hurt, thinking that way, but it was also liberating.
She was the guest, again. And, again, she was ready to go, leaving only past and suffering behind. The river had to keep its flow, just like her life and the others’. The guests would keep on coming, looking for a place, shelter, support.
“Sign here, please.”
Georgia signed, afraid of wronging that newly-acquired signature, created in emergency. The pen slid in circles and well-shaped lines, so that no doubt would remain of her being who she said she was and nobody else.
“Check out finished, Mrs. Meade. We hope to see you soon.” And, looking at the baggage the woman had with her. “If you wish, I could call a cab.”
“It’s ok.” Georgia replied. “There must be a lot of them just outside and I’m not in a hurry. Thank you.”
Georgia grabbed her bag again and smiled one last time, turning around to cross the long lounge towards the entrance doors, while the new guests of room 1305 followed the opposite direction, heading the elevators.
As soon as she saw the automatic glass doors just a few feet ahead, blocking the snow-sprinkled cold air from the outside, she also saw the double doors slide automatically open when a troupe of men in costumes invaded the hall, all extremely serious with their identical blue garments. One of them, though, looked a little more determined inside a shabby cheap suit, a gun flashing underneath his opened jacket.
The police.
Passing by her, the man in the cheap suit slightly bumped into Georgia, almost causing all her bags to fall to the floor. Scared and trying to apologize, he turned and she simply waved it was alright, while the troupe kept on advancing towards the reception counter.
With the same tranquility, she finished her way, crossing the double doors while the wind tried to harm her on the outside, where the traffic noise seemed to bring her back to reality again.
It was all still too dark and obscure, cold as that powerful winter that would last for a couple more days at least. As she had thought, as she came out of the hotel, she saw a line of taxi cabs just waiting by the sidewalk, a few feet up ahead. Dragging the bag, she headed to the last one of the line, where an old man with a round and tanned face, adorned by a beautiful white mustache distractedly awaited, watching the police cars that had just parked in front of the hotel, blocking the traffic on the opposite way of the avenue.
“Are you free?” She asked, the man finally noticing her and moving to the passenger’s window.
“Yes, dear. Do you need help?”
She shook her head. The man unlocked the trunk, which slowly moved upward and Georgia used the little strength she still had to put the bigger bag and, finally, the smaller one, praying to the gods she didn’t even believed in for the suitcase to keep itself shut during the trip.
With a dry thud, she shut the trunk down and opened the taxi door, casting one last glare around, to the calmness of the avenue and the wind roaring around the buildings, considering the time it would take for that place to become hell. Georgia sighed and looked up, observing the contrast the branches of a dry tree created against the sky, which already showed the first signs of the morning to come. She smiled. The morning was closer than she had expected.
She entered the cab and carefully closed the door, placing her handbag beside her body and fastening the seatbelt.
“Where to, lady?”
She sighed and, staring at her own reflection on the windowpane, she replied:
“International airport.”
In there, she was safe. In there, she could go back to being who she was, without the masks or the lies. She could go back to the memories she no longer desired and feel protected, ready for the bright morning that was waiting for her.
The Woman Hidden Page 46
