I finally have a plan.
I'm going to meet the guy who overheard the murder plot at the next club he visits. He won't know who I am because I've already catfished him using a fake online profile. He thinks he's meeting his new crush.
I'll be wearing a blonde wig to hide my red hair, and I'll do my makeup heavy but glam—enough to change my features without looking like a clown. I'll dress in a way I know he'll like and wear ridiculously high heels. No way am I riding my bike like this, though. I called an Uber.
The moment I stepped into the club, I was swallowed by the chaos of flashing lights, pounding bass, and writhing bodies. There's always been something about parties that unsettles me. I don't know if it's the deafening music, the crowds pushing past me, or the unwanted attention from drunk guys. Probably all of the above.
I made my way through the crowd, constantly being pulled aside by people offering drinks or asking me to dance.
