But it's not the aesthetics I'm worried about right now. Instead, I'm focused on how the staggering of the balconies makes the distance between them harder to navigate.
I stand up on my toes and reach as far as I can, moving in slow, careful strides to the balcony just diagonal to mine. The door is dark, so I'm less worried about somebody being inside and noticing me pull myself up onto the balcony and walk across it. From there, I choose the next dark door I can access and drop down into it.
I make the mistake of looking down for a second while moving from one balcony to the next. I’m not on a skyscraper or anything, but I’m still several floors up. A fall from here would not be pleasant. A sudden dizzying sensation washes over me, but I take a deep breath. Relax, Emma. I redouble my grip on the wall and keep walking. The progress is slow, but eventually, I'm able to maneuver my way from balcony to balcony until I reach Emmanuel's room.
I finally reach his and scamper down from the ledge and sit down on the balcony, trying to regain my calm. I've never had to play Spider-Man during an investigation before. No one below started screaming about my being overhead or seeing me jump between the balconies, so I think I’m safe.
I stand up and go to the door. The curtain is pulled closed over the glass door, but I can see the glow of a light beyond it. I knock on the door, but there's still no response. The tip Graciela gave me the day I checked into the resort is the whole reason I'm on the balcony now. I need to get into Emmanuel’s room, even if this is what it takes.
Obviously, whoever was taking care of Emmanuel's room didn't work at the resort long enough to know the trick to the doors. All it takes is a little pressure and a slight movement of the handle, and the door slides right open. I slip inside, and the second I move the curtain aside, I understand why Emmanuel didn't open the door when I knocked.
Blood is pooling in the middle of the floor, creating a trail through the room. It's not bright red, but a rusty brown, the results of oxidation after being exposed to the air for some time. Careful not to touch anything or step into any of the blood, I follow the trail through the room into the bedroom and to the master bathroom.
The door is partially closed. I use my elbow to nudge it open. Emmanuel is sprawled on the floor, the tile beneath him soaked in blood that seems to have flowed out of deep gashes stretching from the heels of his hands down to the middle of his forearms.
I take a step closer and note bruises on one upper arm and on the side of his neck. There is some redness on one cheekbone and a towel in one hand. Walking back out into his room, I notice the blood trail forking off. Smaller drops lead to the door that opens out into the hallway.
Lying just in front of the door is a menu. There's nothing I can do from inside the room. I don't want to touch anything, including the phone, and even if I was to call for help, me being inside the room without authorization could cause serious problems. I have to get back to my room.
The only way is along the balconies again. It's easier this time, with adrenaline fueling me. If someone sees me, I'll deal with the consequences of breaking into the room. It would cause complications, but that's not what matters right now. All I'm thinking about is getting to Eric.
He's already on his feet when I get back into my room.
"You need to call security," I tell him.
"What's going on?" he asks.
"Call Desmond and tell him you heard reports of noise in room 502, and after I haven't been able to get in touch with Emmanuel, you are concerned and want to run a welfare check. Pull the FBI card. Get pushy about it if you have to. You need to get in that room."
"Emma, what is going on?" he repeats.
"He's dead. I got into his room, and there's blood everywhere. He's on the bathroom floor, and his wrists are slit," I explain.
"He killed himself?" Bellamy asks.
I shake my head. "No. He's bruised, and the blood suggests a struggle. Even if whoever did this was trying to make it look like a suicide, they did a seriously piss-poor job of it. They got the direction of the wrist slitting right, but people don't generally slit their wrists in the living room and then make their way to the bathroom. There's also a towel in his hand."
"He was trying to stop the bleeding," Eric notes.
"He just never got a chance."
"I'll make the call."
Twenty minutes later, we're standing in Emmanuel's room again. Desmond and two other security guards stand back while Eric and I walk through the space. All three look drawn, more convinced than ever of their life choice to do security at a resort where they have little to do rather than actually going into law enforcement. None want to look at the blood. They keep their eyes focused on other places, occasionally looking at Eric or me, but not venturing closer to the body.
Eric takes pictures and speaks notes into the recorder on his phone. I get his attention to show him the menu at the door, and he takes a picture of it.
That's the image still in my head later when we're back in my room. The local police have come from the mainland to handle the newest death at the resort. Eric spent almost two hours with them after a couple of harried phone calls to Bureau higher-ups to get them started on the necessary paperwork as to
