Alias: Regina Hale—Six Months Ago

Alias: Regina Hale—Six Months Ago

The smell of sulfur stings my nose as the match flame comes to life. I hold it steady for a second or so to make sure it’s going to stay lit, then throw it on the bed. Flames stretch and grow as it feeds off the synthetic fibers of the comforter and really take hold once it latches on to the bright red coat.

Throwing the last of Amy’s belongings into the black duffel bag, I take one last look around the room to make sure I got everything, then toss the bag back into the housekeeping cart. Flames shoot up, and thick black smoke fills the room. That’s my cue to go.

I pull the hotel room door open and push the cart into the hall, straight to the service elevator that is waiting. Once I’m back on the ground floor, Devon is there waiting for me. I pull out the bag, then hand off the cart to him. We don’t speak when we part ways, him going through the parking garage to exit on the other side of the block while I move through the kitchens to the door that lets out onto a narrow alley on the side of the hotel.

I unlock my car and sink into the driver’s seat. My hands shake as I pull out my phone and tap in the number I have for emergencies.

Mr. Smith answers on the first ring.

“What the fuck happened?” He’s already heard about the fire.

I let out a shaky breath I’m hoping he can hear. “When I entered her room, she was already in the bed. She was extremely intoxicated and had a lit cigarette dangling from her mouth. I approached her with a syringe of Rohypnol but she became violent the second I was near the bed. The cigarette fell out of her mouth and landed on the bedspread. There was an empty bottle of wine next to her, but the contents must have soaked into the bedding, because the entire bed was engulfed in flames within seconds. I reached for her but she . . . was already on fire. Her clothes . . .” My voice cracks and I shudder out a moan. “It was horrific. And so fast. She was just . . . engulfed in flames.” I sound frantic. Scared. My voice is trembling.

He’s quiet on the other end. “Was there anything of use in her room?” he finally asks.

“I don’t know. I was going to look after I had her subdued but had to leave the moment the fire alarm sounded,” I answer quickly. “I wasn’t able to recover anything.”

“You didn’t take anything with you?”

“No. Nothing.” I’d stuffed the black bag under my jacket, so there’s no reason anyone should have seen me with it.

I wait for a response or another question, but there’s only silence. Finally, he says, “I understand she hurled a threat at you on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. One that involved me.”

“She was completely intoxicated. Acting crazy,” I tell him, but don’t deny what she said.

“It would be very convenient for you to come into possession of something that could be used against me and tell me you didn’t.” There’s a chill in his voice I’ve never heard before.

With a shaky voice, I answer, “I don’t know what she had on you. I didn’t find anything at her home, in her car, or in that hotel room. If she had it in there with her, it is nothing but ashes at this point.”

Silence. Silence that lasts forever.

What feels like an eternity later, he says, “We’ll be in touch.” Then he ends the call.

I lay my head on the steering wheel and take a deep breath. My heart pounds. My hand fumbles as I attempt to turn the key in the ignition. It takes a few minutes, but I finally get the car into drive, and I’m pulling away as more and more fire trucks arrive.

Two blocks away, I find a parking spot in front of a Wells Fargo bank and head inside.