Chapter 7. A Cold-Blooded Murder?

No bloodstains on the pillows and sheets. No signs of struggle. No ligature marks on the young victim's neck or wrists. 

The girl didn't look older than 25.

No surprise there. Darren didn't fancy older women. No pulse. Motionless. Dead. 

The girl was already dead. Perhaps for about an hour now. Her pallid skin wasn't cold to the touch yet. 

Jenson got up from the floor and looked away from the corpse on the fairly messy bed. The hotel room looked clean and orderly, but not too clean or suspiciously organized. Hastily, he took off the surgical glove and curbed the strong urge to swear out loud and kick the nightstand.

Darren watched his every move despite the dimness. Covered up by a dark robe, Darren stood against the wall with his hands on his head, clutching his tousled hair that partly hid his shadowed face and panic-stricken eyes.  "What? W-What should we do?" he muttered while he blankly stared at the stiff on the hotel bed.