ROOM 1810

(Short story)

“So, what would you like to do now? We finally did it. We ‘re together. We’re
inseparable and we’re alone…” she whispered the last word against my ear
and every nerve in my body lit up.

“You have no idea what I’ve planned for us. Just wait and be patient. You know patience is the key.” I chuckled at my own joke.

She didn’t.

“You can’t make jokes. Drop it. Pick up a better hobby.”

“What?!  Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy my humor. I’ve seen you crying from laughter before!  Don’t tell me marriage made you a different woman.”

“Well, it definitely made me your woman” she replied dryly “but right now all I want to do is lie in the hotel bed and sleep. Unless, of course, you’ve actually planned something.”

“Well…, no. The schedule I prepared starts tomorrow. Tonight, we relax”. I winked at her and pulled the keycard from my back pocket. When I heard  the characteristic ding, I pushed the heavy oak door and stepped into our honeymoon suite.

King-sized bed, floor to the ceiling, windows and a balcony with the most amazing view of the city. Perfect.

I dropped my jacket and made my way towards the comfy looking bed.

She stopped.

“Don’t.”

Her voice changed. She seemed distant, in an unusual way.

I turned.

She was staring towards the balcony.

The curtain shifted in the breeze. The glass door was slightly open. And behind it… a shoe. Polished, expensive. Attached to a leg, attached to a man leaning on the balcony ramp. Very still. Unnaturally still. Silence filled the room.

“You’ve got to be kidding me” she muttered under her breath.

I was already moving. Searching the area for any possible clues.

Male, mid-thirties. No visible blood, no dramatic trauma. Just swelling at the
right side of the skull.

Blunt force trauma. Someone attacked him recently. We didn’t scream. We didn’t panic. We were now involved, and it was our duty to solve the mystery. After all we were detectives, even on our honeymoon.

“Forty-eight hours” I muttered. “We couldn’t even get forty-eight hours to
ourselves!”

She stood, brushing off her knees and hands. “We call it in.”

“Yes.”

“And we’re going to sleep.”

“Absolutely.” I responded and it went quiet for the second time.

“We’re not “actually” going to sleep.”

“No” I admitted, “No we’re not.”

“Why our balcony?” she asked puzzled, not expecting an answer.

“Wrong room?”

“Or right room.” she said, making an assumption.

“We weren’t meant to find him accidentally.”

She nodded. “This,” she scanned the room before speaking again “is either a
message-”

“… or a bait.” I cut her off before she finished.

Her gaze sharpened again.

“Check his pockets.”

I blinked. “We ‘re off duty.”

She raised an eyebrow “you want to sleep next to him while we wait?”

“Good point…” I crouched, following her orders, and reached for his pocket.

“Wallet, phone and keycard.”

“Room number?” she asked.

I turned the card on the other side:

1810

We both slowly turned to look at our own door.

Suite 1816. Six rooms down.

“Maybe he tried the wrong balcony.” I said.

“No. He was placed here.”

Local police arrived. Officers surrounded the crime scene, and reporters were waiting to investigate and deliver the news. The shocking part though was that when we looked at the hotel’s registry to identify the victim, there was no room 1810.

“That’s not possible.” I muttered to myself.

The manager admitted, looking pale from the news he received. “There… there has never been a room 1810. The numbering skipped it.”

“Why?” I pushed.

“Something to do with a misprint. The previous owner thought it would be a bigger issue if we tried to fix it -I don’t exactly know though-, sorry.”

We went upstairs. Walked the same hallway we remembered the room 1810 existed in.

1808, 1809… Then… wall. No door, no signs of any room behind the floral wallpaper.

Though we had both seen it. A door marked 1810 six rooms down from us.

She looked at me slowly. “Either we’re exhausted, or someone is playing a really long game.”

We went back to the crime scene. It was later announced that the victims’ fingerprints were all over our room. On the lamp, the balcony door, on the silverware, and… on our wedding photo frame we’d placed on the bedside table earlier that evening.

Except, we hadn’t bought a wedding photo frame.

The hotel security footage showed something even worse. We were on camera entering the non-existent room 1810. Together. Smiling. Hours before we found the body.

It had to be us. Same clothes, same expressions. It was us.

“That’s not possible.” She finally broke the silence.

The officer asked quietly “Are you sure this is your honeymoon?”

We checked the date. It wasn’t the day after our wedding. It was three days later. And the victim? He wasn’t a stranger. He was a suspect in one of our previous cases.

The case that nearly destroyed us.

We checked our phones. Messages were deleted. Images missing. A private note between us read “Justice served.”

None of it made sense. For the first time we weren’t trying to solve a mystery. We were trying to figure out if we had committed one.

We didn’t sleep that night. We couldn’t.

Instead, we spent it replaying the security footage over and over again.

We were there. I swiped the keycard. We were smiling. The time read 2:07 am three nights ago.

She leaned towards the scene. “Zoom there.” she said pointing at the victim’s keycard.

Up-close you could distinguish the different logo that was printed on the corner. It wasn’t the hotel’s design, but it was something more familiar to us.

“I know that symbol.” she froze, and I looked at her.

“It’s from the evidence locker.” she continued.

The same logo as the private company that handed that case.
The same logo officials had found curved in the little girl’s skin.
The case where the suspect walked free. The man who had whispered to the grieving family during his trial “you can’t prove it”.

“He contacted us.” She said sharply.

Back in the suit, she tore through her luggage. Hidden inside the wedding dress, a burner phone. Power off.

She turned it on. No apps, no photos. Just one voice mail, recorded three days ago.

“Cheers to the newlyweds. If you want my present, come alone. Room 1810. No police.”

She looked at me slowly. Her face structure still cold. “He set this up.”

“Why erase our memory?” I asked genuinely curious.

“Not erase. Replace.”

The victim had been preparing something. Something big. She exhaled. “He didn’t drug us to forget.”

I looked at her.

“He drugged us to believe.” A pause followed and silence swallowed the room.

“He staged this whole thing.”

The security footage, edited. The fingerprints, transferred. The clues, planted.
The body though, the body was real.

That’s when it hit.

He hadn’t died three nights ago. No. The time of death was within the last hour.

We checked his phone. No password, like we were meant to search it. A video recording was already opened. Waiting to be viewed.

The victim, shaky, tired. “I told you… you couldn’t prove it,” he laughs weakly
“but I can prove you.”

The nonexistent room, them sitting across from him, and he opens up about the murdered girl from the case. Details only the killer would know. He wanted us to snap. Wanted us to cross the line. Then… another voice caught in the recording. Not them. A fourth person. The frame becomes shaky, the victim gasps and the victim cuts.

I look at her and she looks at me.

“We weren’t alone.”

Someone else was in room 1810.

Someone who didn’t want him alive.

Someone who wanted the blame to sit on us.
The police officer currently leading the investigation entered the room. The funny part? He was listed as a member of the private company.
Right now, he was calm. Suspiciously calm and he was watching us. Studying us too closely. He didn’t blink much. That’s what I noticed first. He was too steady, like he had rehearsed this scene.

“Memory gaps aren’t uncommon under stress,” he said placidly. “Especially when guilt is involved.”
Guilt. He chose that word on purpose.

I grinned in response.

He smiled slightly. “I’m only suggesting possibilities” he said satisfied with my reaction.

Later on, when we were left alone, we replayed the video frame by frame. Clink. Moments before the video cut off a metallic clink was heard from the distant. Not from furniture. From a badge.

“Wait,” she blurted out “check out the lamp.”

I froze.

In the reflection there was a silhouette. Tall, broad shoulders, and on the belt, a police badge.

The fourth person wasn’t someone random. It was someone with authority. Someone who knew how to manipulate people and had access to the security footage.

The victim had tried to manipulate us, but the officer? He had killed the manipulator.

Why? Because the case wasn’t just about the murderer walking free. It was also about the private company that helped him avoid jail time, and it so happened that the officer was also involved.

If the victim talked, the system would crack. So, he took matters into his own hands.

Frame us -the emotionally invested detectives- and close the case. No reopening.

The next morning, the officer returned with a warrant. He expected panic.
Instead, he found us calm.

She handed him a flash drive. His expression changed.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Your reflection. Room 1810.” She replied. “In the video your badge can be seen. I’ve already made copies. Don’t try to run.” She said even though the last part wasn’t exactly true, but confidence is the key.

The officer remained quiet. He knew that if he arrested us now, that would look more suspicious for his case. He made a choice.

“Enjoy the rest of your honeymoon.”
Then, he left.

Hours later, case was officially closed. Cause of death: suicide.

And for the first time these last few days, the suit was finally silent.

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