We Wake up after Stag Party and Realize That Groom Disappeared — Story of the Day

Malcolm wakes up with no memory of the night after a bachelor party and discovers that the groom has disappeared. Determined, he decides to find the groom and bring him back before the wedding starts. But everything changes when Malcolm is accused of being involved in the groom's disappearance.

In the late morning, light filtering through the slightly ajar curtains of a spacious hotel room, chaos's aftermath lay in every corner. The air hung heavy with the scent of alcohol and the echoes of last night's revelry.

Amidst the battlefield of empty plastic cups, a lone, spilled bottle of vodka seemed to mourn its emptiness, its contents staining the plush carpet.

A chandelier, once a beacon of luxury, now lay defeated on the floor, its dignity stripped by the absurdity of a TV hanging from its once graceful arms. The crash of this unexpected duo hitting the ground served as an unwelcome alarm clock.

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Malcolm sprawled across the floor less-than-dignifiedly, jolted awake as if electrified by the sound. The world spun around him for a moment, a carousel of blurry images.

Groaning, he tried to sit up, his head pounding in protest. The room looked like a scene from a movie about the wildest parties, but this was no movie—this was the aftermath of his best friend Tom's bachelor party.

A night meant to celebrate the end of Tom's bachelorhood had escalated into something resembling a small-scale disaster.

Rubbing his eyes, Malcolm's gaze landed on Dave, who was still lost in slumber, uncomfortably contorted in a chair that was never meant for sleeping. Dave, the bride's brother, looked peaceful amid the chaos, a stark contrast to the destruction that surrounded him.

With his head still throbbing, Malcolm made his way towards Dave, his steps unsteady as if the floor beneath him was made of ocean waves.

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"Dave, Dave, Dave," Malcolm's voice was rough, barely more than a croak as he shook Dave's shoulders in an attempt to rouse him from his deep sleep.

When gentle shakes didn't do the trick, Malcolm's patience wore thin, and in a moment of desperation, he slapped Dave's cheek with a force driven by urgency rather than anger.

"Dave!" The word exploded from Malcolm like a cannon, reverberating through the room and back into his skull, magnifying his headache tenfold. Instant regret washed over him, his hand already aching from the impact.

Dave's reaction was instantaneous, his body jerking to life like he had been submerged in ice-cold water. His eyes, bleary and confused, snapped open, and he immediately clutched his head, a mirror image of Malcolm's earlier distress.

Malcolm, in his quest for relief, spotted a bottle nearby. Its contents resembled water, a potential oasis in the desert of his dehydration. With cautious optimism, he unscrewed the cap and took a tentative sniff.

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Relief washed over him as the familiar scent of water greeted him, and without further ado, he brought the bottle to his lips, drinking as if it were the elixir of life itself.

Dave's voice cut through the fog of Malcolm's pounding headache, "Feeling alright?" It was a simple question, but it felt like it required a monumental effort to answer.

Malcolm managed a weak chuckle, "Feels like a truck ran over me." The room spun a little as he spoke. Every muscle ached, and every bone felt brittle.

"Same," Dave tried to agree with a nod but stopped halfway, grimacing. He attempted to rise from the chair, a move that seemed to require the effort of a marathon.

The moment he moved, gravity seemed to double its pull on him, and he sank back into the chair with a thud. "I'll just sit a while longer," he mumbled, closing his eyes briefly as if to block out the pain.

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"Everything hurts," Malcolm groaned out loud, his voice echoing off the walls of the messy hotel room. He felt every beat of his heart in his temples, a relentless drummer in his head.

Dave squinted at him, a half-hearted attempt at focusing. "No wonder. You look like you've been run over by a truck." His voice had no jest, only a reflection of the grim reality.

"What are you talking about?" Malcolm's confusion was palpable as he moved towards the mirror. The reflection that greeted him was a stranger.

Bruises painted his skin in shades of purple and yellow, a broken nose skewed the landscape of his face, and a split lip offered a grimace rather than a smile. His hands were no better, with knuckles swollen and bruised.

"What the heck," Malcolm murmured to himself as he touched his face gently with his hands. The sensation sent a fresh wave of agony through him, and he retreated to the bed, sitting down heavily.

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"We need to wake up Tom and get out of this hotel before the maid comes," Dave suddenly remembered, breaking the silence that had settled between them.

"Agreed, Tom!" Malcolm called out, his voice carrying through the room as he began a search. "Tom!" he yelled, hoping for an answer, but only silence greeted him.

Dave winced at the volume. "Don't yell like that, my head is splitting," he complained, covering his ears with his hands.

"Tom!" Malcolm continued, his search taking him into the bathroom and then back again. "Where is he? Tom!"

As Malcolm's calls for Tom went unanswered, Dave asked, "Do you remember anything from last night?"

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"Not a thing," Malcolm admitted with frustration. "Tom!"

"Neither do I," Dave confessed, his expression troubled.

Malcolm had checked every corner of the hotel room—two bedrooms and the bathroom—but Tom was nowhere. A sinking feeling took hold of him. "Dave, Tom's gone."

"Did you check everywhere?" Dave asked, hope tinged with worry in his voice.

"Yes, he's nowhere to be found," Malcolm confirmed, his mind racing.

"He must have gone to get us breakfast; I'll call him." Dave was optimistic, but hope turned to dismay as he searched his pockets. All he found were poker chips.

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"Or you call him. I can't find my phone." Struggling to his feet, Dave started a clumsy search through the night's debris.

Malcolm pulled out his phone, the screen lighting up in the dim room. He dialed Tom's number, a sense of urgency pushing him. But the cold, impersonal voice on the other end indicated no connection.

"His phone is off," Malcolm relayed, the worry in his voice deepening.

Dave paused in his search, looking at Malcolm. "We need to find him, the wedding is tomorrow," he pointed out, the gravity of the situation settling on his shoulders.

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"Aren't you a genius," Malcolm couldn't help but remark dryly, the irony of the situation not lost on him as he glanced at the poker chips in Dave's hands.

"Let's go to the casino; maybe he stayed there." It was a long shot, but with Tom missing and their memories of the night nothing but voids, any lead was worth following.

Malcolm and Dave stood in the hotel elevator, the silence between them punctuated only by the soft hum of the machinery and the occasional ding as they passed each floor.

With an ice pack clumsily held to his nose, Malcolm tried to find comfort in the cold it provided. The makeshift bandage, a sad trophy from the room's first-aid kit, did little to ease the throbbing pain.

"Why don't we remember anything?" Dave finally broke the silence.

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"Because we clearly had a blast," Malcolm managed a weak smile, trying to inject some humor into the situation.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, releasing them into the lobby. The late morning light filtered through the windows, casting long shadows on the floor. Malcolm and Dave made their way towards the exit, the former still pressing the ice pack against his bruised face.

Outside, the morning was in full swing, the sounds of the city starting its day barely reaching their ears. Malcolm's gaze swept the area, landing on a pair of police officers standing a short distance from the hotel entrance.

An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach. "Hope they're not here for us," he muttered under his breath, a nervous chuckle escaping Dave in response.

Their attempt at nonchalance faltered as the police officers approached. "Malcolm Davis?" the older of the two asked, his face devoid of any emotion that might hint at their purpose.

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"Yes. Is there a problem, officer?" Malcolm's voice was steadier than he felt, a facade of calm over a tumult of anxiety.

Dave, ever the joker even in the face of authority, quipped, "Are we being arrested for having a great party last night?" His laugh, however, was tinged with nervousness, betraying his true feelings.

The policeman's expression remained unchanged as if he were carved from stone. "Mr. Davis, please turn around. You are being detained on suspicion of murdering Tom Bretford." The words hit Malcolm like a physical blow, draining the color from his face.

"What? Murder?" Disbelief and fear collided within Malcolm, rendering him momentarily speechless. Dave's astonishment mirrored his own, his mouth agape, words failing him.

"Mr. Davis, please don't complicate matters, turn around," the officer's tone was firm, leaving no room for negotiation.

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Malcolm turned to Dave, desperation clear in his eyes. "You have to believe me. I didn't do this."

"I..." Dave's voice faltered, the gravity of the situation rendering him speechless.

At that moment, Malcolm realized his only option was to flee. If he allowed himself to be detained, there would be no chance to prove his innocence. With a surge of adrenaline, he pushed past Dave, who had unwittingly blocked his path back into the hotel, and sprinted inside.

"Stop!" The command echoed behind him, the voice of one of the police officers trying to pierce the chaos of Malcolm's thoughts.

Malcolm didn't look back as he dashed through the lobby, his only thought was to put as much distance as possible between himself and the officers. He could hear the heavy footsteps of the police officers giving chase, their shouts a constant reminder of the danger he was in.

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Malcolm darted left and right, taking turns at random, driven by the primal urge to escape. The sound of his heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else.

It seemed like an unlikely sanctuary when he burst into the laundry room. He dove into a basket for dirty linen, pulling the grimy fabrics over himself, trying to blend in with the surroundings.

The room fell silent for a moment, and then he heard them—the muffled footsteps of the policemen as they entered. Malcolm held his breath, willing himself to become as insignificant as a discarded shirt.

"Let's go. He's not here," he heard one of the officers declare after a cursory search of the room. Malcolm waited, not daring to move, not even to breathe properly until he was sure they were gone.

The minutes stretched until he finally dared to emerge from his makeshift hiding spot.

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"What happened to you, Tom?" he whispered to himself, the question heavy with confusion and worry. It was a rhetorical query, one he knew wouldn't be answered in the silence of the laundry room.

With cautious steps, he peeked outside, ensuring the coast was clear before going to the emergency stairs, his heart still racing.

The hotel's back door led him to a quiet alley, starkly contrasting the chaos he'd just escaped. The need to understand what had transpired the night before consumed him.

Malcolm knew that finding Tom and piecing together the previous night's events was crucial. His car was not an option—not only because he felt the lingering effects of alcohol clouding his senses but also because the police might be watching it.

He stepped onto the busy street with a sense of urgency and flagged down a taxi. "To the casino, please," he instructed the driver, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.

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As the cab pulled away from the curb, Malcolm couldn't help but feel like he was stepping into the unknown. The casino held the answers, or so he hoped.

As the taxi weaves through the early morning traffic, Malcolm's gaze is fixed outside the window, his mind swirling with unanswered questions and the gnawing anxiety of the unknown.

The sight that greets him near the casino is like a punch to the gut—an area cordoned off with bright yellow police tape, unmistakable in its implication. "Stop here, please," Malcolm's voice is barely above a whisper, but the urgency in his tone prompts the driver to pull over.

Malcolm pays the fare, his hands shaking slightly as he fumbles with his wallet. He steps out of the taxi, his feet moving towards the alley as if drawn by a magnetic pull. The sight of a large, dark stain on the ground stops him in his tracks.

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It's blood, a significant amount of it, pooled on the concrete in a silent testament to violence. "This must be where it happened," he muses, the realization cold and heavy in his stomach.

"But why me? Why do they think I did it?" He casts a longing glance back towards the night, a black hole in his memory, wishing for any scrap of recollection.

Lost in his thoughts, Malcolm barely notices the approach of an older man until the unmistakable scent of alcohol wafts into his nostrils. He turns, taking in the sight of the man who has clearly seen better days.

Greasy, gray hair frames a face marred by the harshness of life, and his hands, rough and calloused, speak of hard work and harder times. The man's clothes hang loosely on his frame, threadbare and stained.

The gruff voice of the homeless man cut through the early morning quiet. "What are you staring at?" he growled, his eyes sharp under bushy brows. "You jerks took a good sleeping spot from me last night." Without waiting for an invitation, he ducked under the tape and started into the alley.

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Malcolm hesitated, then called after him, "I'm not sure you're allowed in there."

The man stopped and turned, an edge of defiance in his posture. "My stuff's in there. I'm not leaving it just because two idiots fought here last night."

Curiosity and a desperate need for information drew Malcolm closer. "Did you see anything?" he asked, hope threading through his voice.

The older man squinted at Malcolm, suspicion clear in his gaze. "I don't talk to cops."

"I'm not a cop," Malcolm hurried to explain. "I was one of the guys here last night... probably... I don't remember anything, but if you saw something, it could really help."

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The homeless man sized Malcolm up, stepping closer with a scrutinizing look that made Malcolm acutely aware of the other's unwashed scent. Despite his discomfort, Malcolm stayed put, knowing how crucial any information could be.

"Ah, indeed, you're one of those boys," the man finally said, a trace of recognition in his tone.

He stepped back, and Malcolm gratefully inhaled a breath of fresh air. "Are you the one who was cheated on or the one who she cheated with?" he asked, his voice carrying a nonchalant curiosity as he ventured further into the alley.

Malcolm followed, confusion etched across his face. "What are you talking about?"

The homeless man chuckled, a sound devoid of joy. "You guys are hilarious. Started a fight because you couldn't share a girl," he said, shaking his head. "There are plenty of girls out there, so why fight? I don't understand."

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"I don't quite understand you," Malcolm admitted.

"What's there to understand? You came in here, started yelling, woke me up, then started fighting," the man continued, recounting the events with a casualness that belied the seriousness of the situation.

"One of you yelled that the other slept with his fiancée," he added, watching Malcolm closely.

Malcolm's heart stopped. "No, no, he couldn't have found out," he whispered, the reality of the situation dawning on him.

"Ah, so you're the one she cheated with," the man deduced, his tone almost sympathetic.

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Malcolm struggled for words, his mind racing. "I..."

"It's okay, kid. It happens to the best of us. Love is cruel. But why make such a drama out of it? I don't understand," the man said, his voice tinged with a weariness born of experience.

"What happened next?" Malcolm pressed, needing to know more.

"Well, the other guy jumped on you and started beating you up. You just yelled: 'Let's talk, let's talk.' Weak. You have to fight for love. But when he had beaten you up well, you finally fought back, and how! Wow! I felt like I was in a cinema," the man recounted, his eyes lighting up at the memory.

"So, I killed him?" Malcolm's voice was barely above a whisper, dread filling him.

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"Have a fear of God! What killing? He fell. You said you'd take a walk because you didn't want to fight with him and left," the man corrected him, dispelling Malcolm's worst fear.

"So, he was alive when I left?" Malcolm needed confirmation, his hope rekindling.

"Of course, alive, with a black eye, but alive. You disappointed me; I was just getting into your little show. But your friend didn't disappoint me, after all," the man added a cryptic note in his voice.

"What are you talking about?" Malcolm asked, confusion mounting again.

"He took out a knife and cut his arm. That's why there's so much blood here," the man explained, a mixture of amusement and disbelief in his tone.

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"Why would he do that?" Malcolm's mind raced, trying to piece together Tom's actions.

"How should I know? But blood was pouring out like a fountain. He then tied a tourniquet around his arm. What normal person carries a tourniquet with them?" the man mused, his gaze drifting to the ground where the blood had stained the concrete.

"Can you tell the police about this?" Malcolm pleaded, seeing a glimmer of hope in clearing his name.

"I don't talk to pigs," the man said flatly, turning away to gather his belongings into an old, worn bag.

"Please, you don't understand. They think I killed him," Malcolm's voice was desperate, his plea hanging in the air.

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"Figure it out yourself, kid. I'm not getting involved," the man said over his shoulder as he left the alley, leaving Malcolm alone with a thousand more questions than answers.

If the homeless man was telling the truth and Tom was still alive when Malcolm left, then the police's accusations were false, and he hadn't killed Tom.

Moreover, Tom had sprayed the blood himself. Something wasn't right here, and Malcolm needed to figure it out to clear his name.

Emerging from the alley, Malcolm felt the weight of the morning's discoveries pressing heavily on his shoulders. He dialed Dave's number, the ringing of the phone sounding loud in the quiet street. Dave answered immediately, his voice filled with concern.

"Malcolm. Where are you?" Dave's question was direct, a hint of worry threading through his words.

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"It doesn't matter. I found out something about last night. Tom was alive when I last saw him," Malcolm responded, his voice steady, though his heart raced with the implications of his words.

"But the police said…" Dave began, his voice trailing off into silence, a hesitation that piqued Malcolm's interest and concern.

"What? What did they say?" Malcolm pressed, needing to know every detail, no matter how much it might hurt.

"I'm not sure I should tell you," Dave hesitated, the reluctance in his voice clear.

"Please, Dave. What did they say?" Malcolm's plea was urgent, desperate for answers that might piece together the fragmented night.

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"They said an anonymous witness called them and said they saw you killing Tom. That's why they started their investigation," Dave's words hit Malcolm like a physical blow, sending his thoughts spiraling into chaos.

Malcolm's grip on the phone loosened, disbelief and confusion clouding his mind. How could this be possible?

The recollection of the homeless man's words echoed in his head, a beacon of truth in the fog of accusations. The man had seen Malcolm leaving an alive Tom in the alley, even seeing Tom inflicting a wound on himself.

"Malcolm? Malcolm, are you there?" Dave's voice, filled with concern, brought Malcolm back to the present.

"Yes, yes, I'm here. I just... don't understand what happened last night. Did the police say anything else?" Malcolm asked, grappling for any piece of information that could make sense of the situation.

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"Yes. They haven't found a body or a murder weapon. They think you hid them somewhere,"

Understanding dawned on Malcolm. If there was no body or murder weapon, perhaps there was no murder at all. This realization pointed to one chilling conclusion—it was all a setup.

"I think you need to turn yourself into the police," Dave suggested, a hint of hope in his voice that this nightmare could be resolved.

"No, Dave. I can't. I know what I need to do," Malcolm replied, a determination settling over him. With that, he ended the call, and his decision was made.

Malcolm looked at his phone for a moment before he threw it to the ground, the sound of it smashing a small release from the tension that had built up inside him. Then, he solidified his resolve by tossing the broken pieces into the nearest trash can.

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Now, Malcolm understood the stakes. Tom was trying to frame him for murder, a plan so sinister Malcolm could hardly grasp the why of it. But understanding the 'why' was secondary. What mattered was the 'what now.'

Malcolm's mind was racing as he stepped out of the casino. The bright lights and clamor of slot machines faded behind him, replaced by the bustling sounds of the city.

His thoughts were on Tom and the realization that had hit him like a lightning bolt. If Tom was planning to disappear, he'd need money, a lot of it. And Malcolm knew just where he would try to get it.

He hailed a taxi, the urgency of his mission fueling his actions. Malcolm leaned back as the taxi wove through the city streets, trying to piece together his next moves.

Today, of all days, Liz's parents were supposed to bring the final payment for the wedding—a sizable sum that would be more than enough for Tom to start a new life somewhere far away.

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Malcolm knew he had to act fast. "I need to get to the hotel before Tom does," he thought, his determination hardening.

Malcolm's heart pounded as he asked the taxi driver to pull over a short distance from the hotel. Glancing at the entrance, he saw the reason for his unease: two police cars parked ominously outside, with officers scrutinizing every person trying to enter.

Malcolm knew that walking in as himself was out of the question. He needed a disguise and fast.

Surveying his surroundings for a solution, his eyes landed on a grandmother wrapped in a warm scarf. An idea sparked in Malcolm's mind, desperate but potentially effective. He approached her with a proposition that was as unconventional as it was bold.

"I'm really sorry to ask, but could we swap clothes? I'll pay you," Malcolm offered, trying to sound as earnest as possible. His request, however, was met with a swift hit from the grandmother's cane and a scathing call of "pervert!"

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"No, you don't understand," Malcolm pleaded, pulling out a wad of bills from his pocket. "Please, I really need your help." His voice carried the weight of his desperation.

The grandmother eyed the money with a mix of suspicion and interest. With a swift motion, she snatched the bills from his hand, her earlier anger momentarily forgotten. "Fine," she huffed, "but make it quick."

They found a nearby café where she could change, and Malcolm waited with a mix of anxiety and gratitude. When she returned, handing him her clothes, Malcolm couldn't help but feel a twinge of absurdity at the situation.

Carefully, he draped the scarf around his head, concealing his face as much as possible. He looked at the grandmother, now dressed in clothes far too large for her, and felt a pang of guilt.

"I'll need your cane, too," he said, hesitatingly extending his hand.

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"How am I supposed to walk without my cane?" the grandmother protested, her voice a mix of annoyance and challenge.

But Malcolm's assurance that the money he gave could buy her ten more canes seemed to sway her. With one last hit of the cane against Malcolm's leg, she handed it over, muttering under her breath about the craziness of the youth today.

"Thank you," Malcolm said, genuine gratitude in his voice. He hunched over, adopting the posture of an elderly person, and began his approach to the hotel.

As he neared the entrance, Malcolm's heart raced. He could see the police officers, vigilant, inspecting everyone who entered. He gripped the cane tighter, leaning on it.

The sight of the police officers guarding the entrance had sent a wave of anxiety through him, but the urgency of his mission propelled him forward.

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"May I see your documents, ma'am?" one of the officers asked, his voice polite yet firm, echoing the protocol he was obliged to follow.

Malcolm, steadying his nerves and deepening his voice to mimic the frail quiver of an elderly woman, responded with feigned anger, "Why do you need them?"

The officer, slightly taken aback by the sharpness in the "old woman's" tone, tried to explain, "I need to verify your identity." His words were straightforward, a simple statement of procedure in these unusual circumstances.

Malcolm seized the moment to escalate the situation dramatically, aiming to distract and confuse the officer. "Trying to hit on me?!" he accused his voice a mix of outrage and disbelief.

"No, ma'am..." the officer began, clearly flustered by the unexpected accusation. But Malcolm didn't let him finish.

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Interrupting the officer, Malcolm tapped into a well of fabricated anger, brandishing the cane like a weapon of moral outrage.

"Pervert! What kind of world do we live in? I pay a lot of money to rest in a hotel! And you want me to show you my documents?! I'm calling the police," he declared, each word delivered with a righteous fury that would have been impressive under different circumstances.

"Ma'am, I am the police," the officer tried to reason, his patience clearly tested by this bizarre encounter.

Malcolm didn't miss a beat. "What an outrage! How dare you?! I worked 40 years for this country! I'll sue you." The threat was delivered with such conviction that it momentarily silenced the officer.

Just then, another officer approached, drawn by the commotion. "What's going on here?" he asked, his tone indicating that he expected a quick resolution to this unexpected disturbance.

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"This gentleman is denying me entry to the hotel!" Malcolm pressed on, not giving the officers a moment to regroup. "This is outrageous! I will complain to your superior! I will sue you! What kind of world is this?" His voice rose in pitch, a crescendo of feigned anger and disbelief.

"Okay, okay, ma'am. Please calm down, go ahead and sorry about my colleague," the second officer intervened, his words clearly attempting to de-escalate the situation.

"But..." the first officer tried to interject, still clinging to the protocol he was meant to enforce, but his colleague swiftly silenced him.

"That's better," Malcolm said, a hint of smug satisfaction in his voice as he shuffled past the officers, his performance seemingly over.

Behind him, he heard the officers whispering in disbelief. "Can't you see she's out of her mind?" one muttered to the other.

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"I thought we had to check everyone coming in," the first officer tried to defend his actions.

"Well, not the grandmother," the other replied, his voice low and admonishing, as if this was an obvious exception.

Malcolm couldn't help but let out a quiet laugh as he moved deeper into the hotel, the officers' bewildered exchange a small victory in the larger, more dangerous game he was playing.

Malcolm, his heart pounding, took the elevator up to Liz's floor. Disguised as an elderly woman, he felt ridiculous, yet the gravity of the situation left no room for self-consciousness. Reaching Liz's door, he paused, taking a deep breath before knocking softly.

The door swung open, revealing Liz, the bride-to-be, her expression one of surprise and confusion. "Can I help you?" she asked, her eyes scanning Malcolm, not recognizing him at first.

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"Liz, it's me," Malcolm said quickly, pulling down the scarf to reveal his face, hoping the familiarity of his voice would cut through the shock.

"Malcolm?" Liz gasped, stepping back, her hand over her mouth. She allowed him to enter, closing the door swiftly behind him. "What are you doing here?" Her voice was a mix of worry and disbelief.

Malcolm wasted no time. "Tom is trying to frame me, and I think I know his next move." His voice was urgent, desperate for her to understand the gravity of his words.

"Malcolm, what are you talking about? You…” Liz started, but Malcolm cut her off.

"I didn't kill Tom. He framed me. I don't know why he'd do it. But I think it's somehow related to us sleeping together. I don't know how he found out. Where's the money your parents gave you for the wedding?" Malcolm's eyes searched Liz's for any sign of comprehension.

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Liz's face paled. She pointed to a table where an envelope full of money lay. "I told him. I told Tom that we slept together. But he reacted normally, said everyone makes mistakes."

Malcolm felt a surge of frustration. "Why did you tell him? And he only reacted normally with you," he said, pointing to his bruised face, the physical evidence of Tom's reaction.

"I couldn't start our marriage with a lie. Besides, we only slept together once, and it was a mistake," Liz's voice was low, filled with regret.

Malcolm approached the table, his hands shaking as he swapped the envelope with another from his jacket. "What are you doing?" Liz's voice was sharp, confusion written all over her face.

"No time to explain. The police could arrive at any moment. So, our night together was just a mistake to you?" Malcolm's voice broke, the hurt evident.

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"Malcolm, I… I need to step away," Liz said, her voice barely above a whisper as she retreated to the bathroom, leaving Malcolm alone with his thoughts.

"Forgive? For what?" Malcolm was confused, the situation spiraling beyond his control.

The door burst open before he could press for answers, and police officers flooded the room. "Stay where you are!" one of the officers commanded, his voice booming in the small space.

Malcolm's heart sank as he realized the trap he'd walked into. "How could you, Liz…" he murmured, betrayal stinging more than any physical wound.

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"I knew you'd be jealous of me and Tom, but what you did is too much," Liz's words were a knife to Malcolm's heart, confirming his worst fears.

"Malcolm Davis, you are under arrest for…" the officer began, but Malcolm was already moving, his survival instincts kicking in. He darted for the window, scrambling onto the fire escape.

"After him! Quick!" The officers' shouts chased him down the fire escape, their footsteps thundering behind him.

"This can't be the end," Malcolm thought to himself as he hit the ground running.

He ran, the sound of his pursuers close behind. Turning a corner, he found himself facing more officers. Desperation surged within him as he looked for another escape route, but it was too late.

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With no other options, Malcolm tucked the envelope with the money behind a trash can, a futile attempt to protect what little leverage he had left. Raising his hands in surrender, Malcolm turned to face the officers, his heart heavy with defeat.

Malcolm found himself in an interrogation room's stark, uninviting confines, the air thick with tension. A seasoned and skeptical detective paced before him, his steps echoing off the cold, hard floor.

"Malcolm, let's not make life harder for either of us. Just tell me where the body is," the detective urged, stopping to fix Malcolm with a penetrating stare as if willing the truth to surface.

Malcolm met the detective's gaze with a mix of frustration and resolve. "I didn't kill him. Nobody killed him," he asserted.

The detective snorted, a sound of disbelief. "Of course. He just vanished. And the blood in the alley appeared there by magic." His sarcasm was biting, intended to unsettle Malcolm.

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But Malcolm held his ground, insisting on the truth as he knew it. "He's alive! And he bled himself."

The detective's eyebrows raised in skepticism. "And you got this information from…?" he prodded, already doubting the credibility of Malcolm's source.

Malcolm hesitated, knowing how implausible his next words would sound. "A homeless man," he admitted, bracing for the detective's reaction.

"Oh, of course. A very reliable source," the detective mocked, his voice dripping with sarcasm, undermining Malcolm's claim.

"You have to believe me! Tom is alive!" Malcolm pleaded, his desperation mounting. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as the weight of his situation became oppressively clear.

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"And how will you prove that?" the detective challenged, leaning forward, his eyes boring into Malcolm's.

Malcolm faltered the words catching in his throat. The detective saw the hesitation and pounced, outlining Malcolm's grim options with cold clarity.

"Listen, Malcolm," he began, his tone ominous as he leaned over the table, invading Malcolm's space.

"We can go two ways: the easy way or the hard way. If you choose the first, you just tell me where the body is, then write a confession for the murder, and then I'll make sure you're not too… beaten up in prison."

The detective's smile was more a baring of teeth, a predator confident of its prey's imminent capitulation. "Or you can choose the other way and continue to claim Tom is alive. Then I'll starve you, won't even give you water, forbid you from leaving this room, and when you're all dehydrated, in urine and feces, then you'll still tell me where you hid the body, just to end this nightmare."

For illustration purposes only. | Source: Pexels

"Tom. Is. Alive." Malcolm's response was a hiss, defiance flaring despite the dire threats.

"Well, I see you've chosen the second option," the detective concluded, stepping back, a signal that the interrogation was far from over.

Just then, another officer entered the room, whispering urgently to the detective. The exchange was brief, but the shift in the detective's demeanor was immediate.

"I don't know what game you're playing," the detective said, his skepticism still evident but now tinged with curiosity. "But we just got information that Tom was caught trying to pay with counterfeit money."

Malcolm's heart leaped. "Caught, the bastard," he muttered under his breath.

For illustration purposes only. | Source: Pexels

"Pray that it's really him," the detective cautioned, his eyes narrowing as he considered the implications of this new development.

"It's him. I swapped the money for a fake. I took props that they use in the casino for display. I knew Tom would need money to flee. But I wasn't sure if he was daring enough to steal the money from his fiancée when everyone thought he was dead," Malcolm explained, the pieces of his desperate plan laid bare for the detective to scrutinize.

"You're detained until we make sure it's really Tom, and he's really alive," the detective stated, a non-negotiable end to their exchange as he turned and left the room.

Alone, Malcolm breathed a sigh of relief, allowing himself a moment to process the whirlwind of events.

For illustration purposes only. | Source: Pexels

When the detective returned with news, Malcolm felt a mix of emotions. Relief that Tom was caught, but confusion over his motives. The detective sat down, looking puzzled himself.

"The police caught Tom trying to buy a plane ticket with counterfeit money," he began, his tone indicating he was still trying to piece everything together.

Malcolm listened intently, his mind racing as the detective continued.

"Tom cracked very easily under questioning. He confessed to being the anonymous witness who called in, claiming to have seen you killing him.

And not just that, he admitted to cutting himself to leave blood traces at the scene of the alleged crime. The fight he instigated in the casino was also part of his plan to ensure security witnessed an argument between you two."

For illustration purposes only. | Source: Pexels

Malcolm was stunned. It was one thing to suspect Tom's betrayal, but hearing the details laid out like this was another. It made the deception all the more real, the betrayal all the more cutting.

"But I don't understand why he did all this," the detective admitted, his confusion echoing Malcolm's own feelings.

The answer, simple yet complicated, weighed heavily on Malcolm. "Because I slept with his fiancée," he confessed, the words feeling both liberating and heavy with consequence.

For illustration purposes only. | Source: Pexels

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