[center][h1][color=82ca9d]"Emerald"[/color][/h1][/center]
[center][h2][color=82ca9d] Gilded Heights Apartment Complex, Room #67[/color][/h2][/center]


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Emerald perused the Detective’s apartment as if it were a museum. Museum Ashley. It spoke lengths about his habits, dishes stacked high in the sink, bedsheets strewn about, dust collecting in a thin sheen atop lots of general clutter. Every so often she would check the locks. Check the door, check the window. She would undo all of them just to peer out into the hallway, then do them all up once more.

She wished she was working. Her mind was quiet when she was dancing. Hell, she might even be safer in front of a crowd of people, all eyes on her. She had half a mind to march right down to the Carousel with that thought, but she stopped realizing business at this time of day and in these circumstances would be deader than the chopped up girl in her apartment.

So she sat, neatly setting herself amidst the mess of bedsheets with an ominous creak of the frame, and waited.