The truck’s engine growled low as Leon pulled out of the hotel parking lot, the wad of bills—roughly a thousand dollars, still stuffed in his pockets.
The October night was thick with humidity, the kind that when you step outside you can barely breathe.
He kept the windows cracked just enough to circulate the air in the truck, but not enough to let the smell of blood escape.
His work shirt, navy blue with the hotel’s faded logo over the heart, was balled up in the back, replaced by a plain gray tee he’d grabbed from his room earlier.
He drove north on I-10, past the glow of refinery stacks, through the Atchafalaya Basin where the swamp swallowed headlights like secrets.
No radio. No thoughts worth voicing. Just the sound of the coming through the window.
By morning he crossed into Arkansas.
He found the turnoff to his old buddy’s place outside Pine Bluff—a double-wide trailer on a gravel road, porch light still burning like the Motel 6.
The friend—call him Ray—opened the door in boxers and a wifebeater, shading his eyes from the early morning sun.
Ray: “Leon? Shit, man, what the hell—”
Leon: “Don’t ask. Just needed a place to get some rest a couple days if that’s okay with you bro?.”
Ray didn’t think twice about it. Old buddies don’t question each other when they look like they been up a few days.
They drank beer on the porch, talked about nothing—football, women who’d came and gone, and trucks that needed fixing.
Leon kept the bag close, like it might walk off. The money felt heavier now, accusatory.
Around noon, while Ray was inside frying fish, Leon sat on the steps with a cigarette he didn’t really want.
The quiet sound of the country ate away at him.
He pulled out his wallet, looked in it for some loose change, and walked to the payphone bolted to the side of a small store.
Dialed the hotel’s number the only number he knows by memory.
The hotel phone rang twice. A young woman’s voice answered—shaky, younger than the day shift usually was.
Receptionist: “Front desk.”
Leon: “Hey. How’s everything going? I heard what happened over there.”
A long pause. He could hear her breathing catch.
Receptionist: “It’s… it’s bad. “Melissa… she’s gone. Someone… God, it was awful. They’re saying it was quick, but… Why weren’t you at work today? Everyone’s asking.”
Leon exhaled smoke.
Leon: Car trouble. Got stuck up north. Figured I’d call, see if y’all needed anything.
She sniffled.
Receptionist: “The police are here. Everywhere. They’ve been asking questions.”
Leon: “Yeah. Figures.”
Back at the hotel, the lobby still smelled of bleach and ammonia despite hours of cleaning.
Security footage had been choppy but clear enough: a man in a hotel maintenance shirt, knife low, Melissa stepping into the hallway.
The tape spiraled in the small office while detectives watched, jaws tight.
Detective Jones—mid-forties, tie already loosened—pointed at the screen.
Detective Jones: “That’s him. Who wears the company shirt?”
The day receptionist, a woman named Carla who’d come in early to cover the chaos, leaned in.
Day receptionist: “That’s Leon. Maintenance guy. Been here a couple years. Stays on-site third floor 309.”
They moved fast. Up the stairs, badges out.
Knocked once. No answer. Master key card from the manager. Door swung open.
The room was neat in the way of a man who didn’t own much. Bed made. Tools lined up on the dresser.
In the bathroom: bloody rags stuffed in a black garbage bag, still damp. The steak knife—serrated edge crusted dark—lay on the sink like it had been set down carefully after use.
Jones stared at it for a moment.
“Son of a bitch didn’t even try to hide it.”
They radioed it in. Within the hour the Louisiana State PD issued the alert:
Armed and extremely dangerous suspect, Leon [last name withheld], wanted in connection with the brutal murder of night manager Melissa [last name withheld].
Leon description circulated to every precinct, fire station, state line. News vans rolled up outside the hotel; news anchors spoke in hushed, urgent tones about “a trusted employee” turned killer.
Back in the lobby, Carla was still on the phone with Leon when Jones returned.
She looked up, eyes wide. “
Carla: I just hung up the phone with him. He called. Said he heard what happened. Asked what was being done about it.”
Jones stepped closer.
Detective Jones: “Did he say where he was?”
Carla swallowed.
Carla: “He said something about his car broke down up north and he’s staying at a friend’s house.”
The detective’s expression didn’t change, but something cold was settling in on him.
Let’s find out who this friend is and where up north is he referring to? He nodded once, already reaching for his radio.
Detective Jones: “Get me Arkansas State Police. We got word that the suspect crossed state lines. We’re going hunting.
Outside the trailer in Pine Bluff, Leon hung up the receiver he flicked the cigarette into the dirt and walked back to the porch. Ray was inside, oblivious, to what was going on while humming over the stove.
Leon sat down heavily on the swing. The money bag rested against his leg. For the first time since the hallway, he felt the weight—not of the cash, but of everything else catching up.
Somewhere down the gravel road, a swat truck tires were already turning toward him.
To be continued…