Back and forth and back and forth. Rhythm and focus, nervous energy driven away, even as it continues to build. The threadbare carpet in her dimly lit motel was made even worse as her boot clad feet circle the space once again.
She curses under her breath as she abruptly stops, picking up a worn cardboard box, with faded black words writ across one side, then set it down. Then she hefted it back up. Then back down. Would it be more or less noticeable if she left it were it was, or if she tried to manouver it to the already full closet.
Another curse and the Mastigos gingerly pushes the box under the bed, arranging the blankets back to order after she's done. It would have to work. Because she'd called Epitaph and left a brusque message for her to find. Giving her a time, and place. Now and her shitty motel room, asking to discuss murder, and the instruments there of.