Lady in Red

A Crimson Melody

The saxophone wove its sultry melody through the smoky air of The Blue Note Club, its notes dancing like ghosts between the clinking glasses and low murmurs of conversation. Walter Devereaux stood at the center of the stage, his eyes half-closed as his fingers coaxed a plaintive cry from the brass. The music was his escape, a world he could control in a city that refused to be tamed.

And then he saw her.

She always arrived when the first set was nearly over, slipping into her corner table like a shadow cast in red. Tonight, her dress was satin, crimson as spilled wine, her dark hair pulled back to reveal a neck as delicate as porcelain. Her presence was electric yet understated, her gaze as distant as it was deliberate.

Walter's heart hitched mid-note, but his fingers never faltered. She was the muse he hadn't asked for, the secret fuel behind the aching tones he poured into every performance. She never clapped, never smiled, but she watched him with an intensity that made the rest of the club fade into the periphery.

The set ended, and applause rippled through the room. Walter nodded to the crowd and stepped offstage, his mouth dry and his pulse erratic. This time would be different, he told himself. Tonight, he'd do more than just watch her leave.

He made his way to the bar, signaling for a whiskey. The bartender, Gus, was a burly man with a perpetual frown and a knack for reading the room. Gus followed Walter's gaze to the woman in red and let out a low chuckle.

"You've been eyeing her for months," Gus said, sliding the glass across the counter. "Why don't you just talk to her?"

Walter took a sip, the burn steadying his nerves. "She's not the type you just talk to, Gus."

"She's here every weekend. She's either into the music or into you. Either way, you're wasting time."

Walter smirked, but the weight of Gus's words settled heavily on him. It was true-she came every weekend, never speaking to anyone, never bringing anyone with her. She existed in the periphery of his world, a mystery wrapped in red.

Tonight, though, she seemed different. There was a restlessness in the way she sat, her fingers drumming lightly on the table, her gaze darting toward the door.

The house lights dimmed, signaling the start of the second set. Walter hesitated, torn between the stage and the chance to finally close the distance between them. But before he could decide, she stood abruptly, her red dress catching the dim light like a flame. She glanced toward the stage-toward him-and for a fleeting moment, their eyes met.

Then she was gone, slipping through the club's doors like smoke dissipating into the night.

Walter waited, his eyes flicking toward the entrance between songs, expecting her to return. She never did. By the time the night wound down and the last drunken patrons staggered out into the cool night air, her absence had begun to gnaw at him.

The band had packed up, and the chairs had been stacked. Walter helped Gus sweep the floor, the club now quiet except for the soft shuffle of a broom against the worn floorboards. The night had been profitable, yet it felt hollow.

"You think she's coming back?" Walter asked, breaking the silence as he propped a chair onto a table.

Gus glanced at him, a strange shadow passing over his face, but he said nothing. Walter assumed it was just exhaustion. He turned back to sweeping, his mind still on the empty corner table where the woman in red always sat.

Then the door burst open. Jeff, one of the bartenders, rushed in from the alley, his face pale and glistening with sweat. "Walt," he said, his voice low and urgent.

Walter straightened, broom in hand. "What is it?"

Jeff struggled to catch his breath. "It's her. The lady in red."

Walter's heart stopped. "What about her?"

"They found her. Down the alley by Nighthawk's." Jeff hesitated, his eyes darting to the floor. "She's dead, Walt. Killed."

Walter stared at him, the words refusing to sink in. "What are you talking about?"

Jeff wiped a hand over his face. "The cops are already there. Somebody said she was... you know. Then strangled. Left there like trash." (She was raped)

Walter dropped the broom, his heart racing. "Let's go."

They ran through the quiet streets, the cool night air biting at Walter's skin. By the time they reached the alley, a small crowd had gathered, held back by uniformed officers. Yellow tape cordoned off the area, and the harsh glow of floodlights illuminated the grim scene.

Walter pushed his way to the front, Jeff close behind him. A pair of detectives stood near the body, talking in low voices. She lay crumpled on the ground, her red dress darkened by the dirt and shadows, her once-striking figure now lifeless.

"Hey!" Walter called out, his voice louder than he intended. "What happened here?"

One of the officers turned, his expression bored. "Back off, buddy. We're handling it."

"I know her," Walter insisted, stepping closer. "She was at my club tonight."

The officer raised an eyebrow, but his tone remained indifferent. "She's just another vic, pal. You want to help, give us your statement and let us do our job."

Walter felt a surge of anger rise in his chest. "Just another victim? She wasn't just some random-"

The officer cut him off with a glare. "I said back off. You think this city stops for one dead girl? Move along before I make you."

Jeff grabbed Walter's arm, pulling him back. "Come on, Walt. They're not gonna tell us anything."

Walter allowed himself to be pulled away, but his mind churned. The way they talked, the lack of urgency-it was like she didn't matter. Like she was nothing.

"Something don't feel right about this," Walter muttered, his gaze lingering on her lifeless form as they walked away.

Jeff shook his head. "This city's a dark place, Walt. People go missing, people die. Nobody cares unless it's somebody important."

But Walter couldn't shake the feeling twisting in his gut. She wasn't nobody-not to him.