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I’m extremely buzzed.

I’m finishing up beer number four. Or is it five? I lost track of it somewhere along the way.

Back when I was working at Coble & Roy, five beers wouldn’t have even touched me. But since leaving the company, I haven’t had the opportunity to drink as often. I usually only have one drink per night, and only a couple of times a week. So I’m feeling these beers. But tonight, I need something to numb the pain. I’m not drunk yet, but I’m getting there.

My life has fallen apart. I lost my VP job. I don’t know how I am going to pay the mortgage next month since I have drained my savings, and even Whitney’s rent money isn’t enough to close the gap. Krista is gone.

And my tenant has a vendetta against me that I don’t understand.

After I finish the last of my beer, I stumble in the direction of the kitchen to get another one. I can’t help but notice that the fruit flies seem to have returned over the last few days. I don’t even want to think about what rotten thing Whitney has stashed away somewhere in my kitchen. I don’t have the energy to search for it right now.

I twist off the cap of a new bottle and toss it in the garbage. I take a long swig as I walk back to the couch. But just as I’m returning to the living room, I trip over the rug, dislodging the corner and stumbling to my knees.

I curse under my breath. I might be drunker than I thought. Stupid rug. I don’t know how I managed to trip over it, but when I try to smooth the corner back in place, I realize the whole rug is off center. The corner is supposed to fit under the sofa, but it doesn’t—that’s why I tripped over it.

I don’t know how I didn’t notice until now, but at some point in the last few weeks, this rug has moved. It used to be mostly under the coffee table, but now more than half of it is beside the coffee table, covering the path from the sofa to the kitchen. I remember noticing something seemed a little bit off about the living room, but I couldn’t put my finger on it until this moment.

Why would somebody move the rug?

Despite (or maybe because of) my inebriation, I decide to relocate the rug to its rightful location. I shove away the coffee table, which is holding the rug in place, and then I pull it off the floor. But as I pull the rug away, I notice that on the rectangle of hardwood floor where it used to lie, there is a large brown stain.

What is that ?

Why is there a stain on my floor? I squint, trying to figure out what the hell I’m looking at. It wasn’t there when I moved in, but it’s been there long enough that whatever it is seems embedded in the floorboards. How do you end up with a stain under the rug when the rug itself is clean?

Did somebody move the rug to cover the stain?

I narrow my eyes at the brown stain that is about half a foot in diameter. I don’t know what it is. It looks like somebody might’ve spilled a glass of wine.

I crouch down next to the irregular brown circle and run my fingers along the floorboards. It’s long since dried. I wonder if I can get it out.

I make another trip back to the kitchen and grab a handful of wet paper towels, along with some cleaning spray from below the sink. I am going to be so pissed at Whitney if she spilled some crap on my floor and I can’t get it off. That’s coming straight out of the deposit.

I spray a liberal amount of the cleaning fluid on the floorboards and wait for sixty seconds to allow it to absorb. It’s probably not long enough, but I don’t want to spend the entire night cleaning the floor, so I do a first pass with the paper towel. To my relief, some of the material on the floorboards wipes off on the paper towel. Except…

I didn’t notice this when the stain was dry, but now that it’s on the paper towel, it’s clear that I got the color wrong. The stain is not brown.

It’s dark red.

It’s got to be wine. It’s the right color. Well, not exactly—it doesn’t have that purplish hue that I sometimes associate with wine. But it’s got to be. What else could it be? What other dark red liquid could have stained my floor boards?

Okay, there is one other thing it could be.

Yes, it is the exact color of blood. It much more closely resembles blood than wine. And it has a strange metallic smell. But it can’t be that. Because why would there be a bloodstain all over my floor?

While I am staring down at the paper towel, trying to sort this out in my beer-muddled brain, the doorbell rings. I leap to my feet, my heart racing. Is there any chance this could be Krista? I haven’t heard from her, but maybe she decided to pop by.

Even if she’s only here to pick up some extra clothing, I hope it’s her.

After a brief hesitation, I toss the carpet back on the floor to cover the stain. Though some of it came off on the paper towel, it’s still very visible. At the very least, I don’t want Krista to see it.

But it isn’t Krista that I see through the peephole. It’s a man dressed in a dark suit, standing in front of my door. I don’t recognize him, and for a second, I just stand there, trying to figure out what the hell this strange man would be doing ringing my doorbell at eight o’clock at night.

And then he rings again.

“Who is it?” I call through the door.

“This is Detective Garrison from the NYPD,” he speaks up, loud enough to project through the door. “Could I have a moment of your time, Mr. Porter?”

Why is there a detective at my door? I look over my shoulder at the rug that is now concealing what may very well be a bloodstain on the floor of my house. But he couldn’t be here about that.

Shit. I don’t want to let a detective into my house right now—or ever, really. But what am I supposed to do? Tell him to go away, please come back later? That isn’t an option.

Finally, I crack open the door. It’s only after the cold November air hits me that it occurs to me that I am in an undershirt and boxer shorts. Not exactly ideal apparel for talking to a detective. But I’m sure he’s seen worse.

The detective is relatively unassuming. Fortyish, dark brown hair and brown eyes. No distinguishing features aside from a couple of grooves in his cheeks that make him look older than he probably is. The only remarkable thing about him is his voice, which is deeper than it rightfully should be for his height and build.

“Blake Porter?” he asks me.

“Uh-huh.”

“Detective Garrison,” he says, even though he told me his name through the door. “I was hoping I could ask you a few questions. It’s about your neighbor.”

I’m not thrilled about inviting a detective into my home when there’s something potentially suspicious under the rug. But then again, it’s covered. And the detective isn’t investigating a homicide. I’m not sure why he wants to talk to me about Mr. Zimmerly, but it seems benign. There’s nothing too exciting about an old man slipping and hitting his head in his own bathroom.

“Sure.” I take a step back, scrunching the paper towel I’d been holding in my right hand. “Come on in.”

The detective strides into my house, and I close the door behind him, shutting out the cold air. I shift between my bare feet, wishing I were wearing pants at least. Why didn’t I put on pants to answer the door? What’s wrong with me?

“Nice house,” the detective comments.

“Thanks.” I attempt a smile, but it turns out lopsided. “So…what’s going on? Everything okay? Mr. Zimmerly is still dead, right?”

I wince. Wow, that joke was in horrible taste. From the detective’s face, he thinks so too. But they can’t arrest you for having a bad sense of humor.

“Still dead,” Detective Garrison confirms.

“I feel bad about it,” I say, trying to seem a little more sensitive.

“Oh?” he arches a bushy eyebrow. “Why do you feel bad?”

“Because, you know, he fell and hit his head.” I scratch at my forearm with my hand not holding the paper towel, even though it isn’t technically itchy. I have officially solved my rash problem since I replaced the detergent and keep it locked up in my room when I’m not using it. “And maybe if I had gotten in there sooner—before it was too late—we could’ve saved him.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, maybe not. But we don’t know for sure.”

The detective levels his eyes at me. “Actually, the medical examiner feels that your neighbor didn’t die from the fall.”

What?

“I don’t understand.” I shake my head. “Why did they even do an autopsy on a guy in his nineties? That doesn’t seem like a good use of medical resources.”

“It was an accidental death. And it’s a good thing they did, because the medical examiner felt that the trauma to his head was not consistent with hitting his head on the sink or bathtub. He felt that it was from blunt force trauma.”

I stare at him. “What? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying somebody hit your neighbor on the head.” The detective frowns. “He was murdered.”