[center][h1][color=8882be]Ashley Gallagher[/color][/h1][/center]
[center][h2][color=8882be]Late Evening - Gilded Heights Apartment Complex, Room #67[/color][/h2][/center]

He was drinking, as he so often was. Seated in his old, dusty chair and watching his whiskey twirl around in his glass like an elusive dancer. He considered the wall opposite of him, decorated with nothing but a simple, small black and white photo of a dog that was not even his. It had come with the frame, the display photo that the store slips in for show. 

The dog was large and scruffy, decorated with what appeared to be a cowboy hat. It stared back out of the photo, tongue lolling to the side, with an expression of suburban contentment. Ashley fancied on the other side of the camera stood a smiling woman with blonde hair, cooing for the dogs attention. At her side were two kids, two girls with twin braids and checkered dresses.

This is what he had seen when he first saw the display photo in the frame on the shelf. So he purchased it. 

He took a long, savoring drink of the whiskey.

Suddenly there was a shrill ring from the phone. There had been a few, about an hour earlier, in rapid succession, but he had ignored them all in favor of the sweet embrace of alcohol. This one, however, he found the incentive to answer, lifting himself from the chair with a groan and stumbling over to the small desk.

He fumbled with the phone for a moment before bringing it to his ear and mumbling out a grouchy, “Hello?”

A small feminine voice that he recognized as one of the station’s secretaries spoke. “Detective Gallagher? There has been a development in your case, you are needed immediately.”

“My case?”

“The double homicide above the club? There has been another murder.”

He let out a very percussive and exasperated iteration of, “Shit.”

“Detective Gallagher, you are needed at Club Carousel on Manhattan, room number 17.”

Ashley had put pencil to pad, scrawling down the location, when it hit him. “Did you say room 17?”

“That is correct, detective.”

The pencil’s tip snapped, spraying fine graphite over the now dented pad. He slammed the phone down into its socket with an abrupt jingle, abandoning it for his coat and hat. Room 17. He knew room 17.

[i]“If you ever want a private audience, Detective. I’m number 17, above the club.” Those red lips smiling at him in their amusement.[/i]

He slammed the door shut behind him, feet in a hurried shuffle. Emerald.


[center][h2][color=8882be]Late Evening - Club Carousel[/color][/h2][/center]

Time slowed down as he ascended the stairs. He pictured her, pale skin slashed with crimson, lips parted in a supple O around the petals of a bloodstained flower. He saw her ebony hair fanned out around her from a struggle. Even in death, she was a beautiful smudge on a hideous backdrop. It felt like a splinter, a shard of wood beneath his skin that set him on edge.

The hall was packed with onlookers, the noise a drowning array of concerned whispers and murmurs. He pushed through, ignoring the hallowed eyes that all seemed to seek his own. They were all meaningless, selfish people looking for comfort, except one. Wide green eyes washed over him and he felt his voice catch in his throat.

She was speaking to the patrolman, a coat, borrowed probably as it was much too big for her small shoulders, clutched tightly around her. Her expression was calm, serene almost, though her knuckles were white, and her eyes met his with a strange sort of intensity. He couldn’t help but roughly shove through the remaining crowd, putting himself before her and startling the officer she was speaking to.

“Emerald,” He addressed hoarsely before clearing his throat and nodding. “What can you tell me about what happened?”

“My roommate,” She stated softly, pointing towards the door with a single, hesitating finger. “I heard her scream.”

“You heard her scream?” Who called in a murder based off of a scream? All of that worrying for— “Nothing, you’re calling in nothing, then?” He felt something of frustration. Whether it was at her for wasting his time or himself for letting her he wasn’t sure.

She shook her head, dark waves bouncing with the action. “She screamed ‘help me’, detective, if you would have heard it…” She trailed off, something of a glaze drifting over her eyes.

“And you didn’t go in? You didn’t try to help her?”

“I knew it was already too late.” She stated, almost as if she was convincing herself. “I couldn’t…” She cut off, before repeating in a softer voice. “I couldn’t open the door.”

The coroner interjected. “No one has been on the scene, Detective, would you like to take a look?”

Ashley nodded roughly, “Wait out here, I need to get an idea of the scene before you get your hands on the body.” He pushed the door open.

“Ma’am, we’re going to have to ask you to wait out here.” The patrolman stated behind him, he glanced over his shoulder to find Emerald close behind.

He stopped, meeting her eyes for a moment and expecting to find some sort of pleading within them. There was nothing. Even so, “Let her in, it’s her apartment. I’ll need some information about it anyway.” And with that he slipped in, Emerald on his heels clicking the door shut behind them.

It was dark inside, too dark to see anything, really. There was the sound of some shuffling before a faint, golden light illuminated the room. 

The first and only thing he noticed was the broken window, the cool summer breeze filtering in and ruffling the sweaty hair at his forehead. The rest of the room seemed untouched. “Anything out of the ordinary besides the broken window?” He called back. He started when the response came closer than he expected. She had moved to stand by him. 

	“No.”

He milled over to the window, peeking his head out of it to eye the outside surroundings. A fire escape, that must have been how the intruder left. No blood on the broken glass— that would have been too damn easy. He sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair pensively.

A small but sharp exhalation drew him out of his thoughts and he turned to find Emerald, haunting over a doorway with wide, watery eyes and folded arms, the fingers grasped tight around her bicep. “Emerald?” He tried, but she did not turn, just kept… [i]staring[/i].

Ashley moved to her side, and would have reached to comfort her had the sight not caught his immediate attention. There, lying amidst a pool of her own blood, barely recognizable was Alison Fitzpatrick. She had eyes, but they were not her own, for one was a bright, gleaming machete, stuck brutally through the side of her face, and the other was a red, red rose, set gently over the tears of blood that spilled over her cheek.