The police had already cleaned up, gotten as much information as they could (or were told to). There was only a small yellow sign with the number ‘ 7 ‘ emblazoned on it where the note once stood. Part of the rope still hung from the light, tied too tightly to be fully removed. There was a line where it had been cut, letting the man down.

The hotel staff would be coming by later in the day to clean up. They had been on the site before, and none of the police had tried to protest. But there was something, something not coming loose, a frayed edge of a piece of cloth and they couldn’t stop tugging at it. An itch, and uncertainty.

But that was all of Wonderland, wasn’t it?

They stood, staring up, not looking at the bed. At the way the table was in easy reach for someone lying there, at the soft white fabric crumpled. No blood on it, but they swore they could smell it, could taste it on their tongue, the sounds of shouting blending in with loud music that vibrated through the floor the taste of tears and blood drying on skin and -