Nick
I walked past the bed and found the entrance to the bathroom.
If the bedroom was an art museum, the bathroom was a spa from another century.
Deep green tiles covered the walls, framing a massive clawfoot bathtub near the window.
A huge, vintage mirror with a heavy brass frame hung above a dark marble sink. Rows of skincare bottles, small glass jars, and expensive-looking creams were arranged neatly along the counter, along with a few small pots of eye makeup and brushes.
I stepped up to the mirror, pulling my gaze up to look at my own reflection.
I looked awful. My blonde hair was sticking out in all directions, white plaster dust from the shootout was settling in my eyebrows, and my face was streaked with dark red stains.
My polo shirt was ruined, stiffened by blood that had already begun to dry in the warm air.
