No one found me in the alleyway where I was killed.
I looked up.
Monica, my best friend of 15 years, was dancing with a guy we had just met.
“You wanna head out?”
“Nah.” I held up my almost-full beer.
“Catch ya, then.” She grabbed the guy by his shirt and pulled him after her across the dance floor.
I took a sip of my beer. Looking around the club, I didn’t recognise anybody. Good. No one will witness me get rip roaring drunk, I thought.
By my third, I felt really warm.
By my fifth, I was seriously hot and starting to get claustrophobic. I slapped a tip on the bar and stumbled out into the alleyway.
I looked left then right, deciding that the train station was left, and promptly turned right.
I don’t know what made me turn away from home.
I don’t know what made me turn away from safety.
I don’t know what made me walk down an enclosed back alley I’d never been before.
And I don’t know what made Monica’s stranger from the club stagger out of a doorway, stab me 20 times, and hide my body.