BNG-001
St. Valentine's Ledger
Patron: Elliot Finch
Date: Aug 1st, 1923 – Gold Coast District
Location: St. Valentine's (Dressing Room #3)
Proprietor: Glass-Eyes
You walked in humming, like nothing had snapped yet, Mr. Finch.
By the time I got there, blood had dried on the floor like old lipstick. Pale. Flat. Unreadable. You were curled up like a forgotten glove, neck turned around the wrong way as if God himself tried to turn your head from something real awful. Room was sealed tight, the door locked from the inside, no windows cracked. Just you. Just Finch. Elliot Finch. The Magician who died alone.
Agatha said you hadn’t been booked. Not for tonight, not for the week, not even a whisper of a curtain call for the foreseeable future. Look, kid, you were never much, certainly not worth paying for in any case. And yet there you were, draped across the dressing room chaise like the final act already ended.
The reflections in the room aren't particularly helpful tonight.
The mirrors only showed you. No one else. No backs of heads, no hands in motion. Just Finch, frozen in time. I told the girls not to clean it up. Room’s already gone sideways and I need to see what stays put. There's got to be another shine in there I can see into. A glass of gin, a shard of glass, or an angle in the mirror I haven't caught yet.
Could be something slipped through from the Courtyard. Happens more often now, the thin places going threadbare. And I've heard a certain patron has been sniffing about, but this ain’t his flavor… too quiet. Too clean. Could’ve been another human who did this, which would be worse. Only name that sticks is the one who was supposed to be on that stage that night. The one who skipped before the spotlight even warmed.
You, Nickels.
You were supposed to sing.
And now I got a corpse where your melody should've been. Like it or not, this is your mess now too.