𝐔𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬 | 𝐀𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫 (2)

Chapter 9

"Excuse me?" An annoyed voice emitted from one of the clothes racks.

My eyes scanned the room, searching for the owner of the mystery voice. "Oh," I stammered, "Hello?"

The owner of the voice, crawled out from behind the clothes rack. "What the hell are you doing here?"

She was young —in her late teens or early twenties. She wore a faded dressing gown over a purple bodysuit —the sequins of which peeked out from under her robe which was old and babyish and contrasted starkly with the maturity of her outfit. She stayed on the floor, her body slumped as if under the weight of something.

"I'm sorry. I thought this room was empty."

"Well it's not," she declared pointedly, "So please leave."

I was about to do as she had asked when I noticed her eyes. Aside from the smudged eyeliner, her blue eyes were red and bloodshot. She had been crying.

"Are you alright?" I asked hesitantly.

I had already invaded her privacy by entering her space and I knew it wasn't my place to ask questions. But a big part of me couldn't ignore someone that was blatantly hurting.

"I'd be a lot better if there wasn't a stranger in my dressing room." She deflected.

"Well then," I decided, "I'd better introduce myself. My name is Adeline Reeves and I'm here with the FBI."

She scoffed, "As if."

I grinned, "Sometimes I don't believe it myself. Wanna see my ID?"

When she shrugged, I walked over to her and joined her on the floor, handing her my badge.  She turned it over in her hands suspiciously, one dubious eyebrow raised.

"So now you know who I am. What's your name?"

She looked me up and down, deciding if I was worth it. "Blue."

"I take it that's not your real name?"

"No. But it's who I am now." She took out a compact mirror from her pocket, followed seconds later by an eyeliner pen.

She brought the liquid tip to her eyelid and tried desperately to fix the black smudges. She sighed frustratedly and rubbed her eye, exacerbating the issue. With a stifled groan, she threw her compact to the other side of the room where it landed with an angry thud.

"Here," I said, reaching for a bursting makeup bag and rummaging around for a packet of makeup wipes, "Let me."

She gave in, her shoulders falling in a sigh, "So what exactly is the FBI doing in a strip club? Money laundering? Sex trafficking?"

"Close your eyes," I instructed, using a wipe to remove the black mess.  "We're investigating a series of murders."

Blue flinched at the mention of the murders and for a moment I doubted my tactic. But I decided to stick with my honest approach. I knew that if she thought I was lying to her —even about the slightest thing— she would shut off from me completely. I was walking on very thin ice.

I located some concealer, blending a thin layer over her eyelids to account for the product I had removed along with the eyeliner.