The lingering scent of last night’s party hung heavy in the air, a cloying mix of stale champagne and forgotten dreams. I moved methodically, a ghost in the dawn light, collecting the last remnants of the revelry.

Red cup after red cup. Each one landed in the black garbage bag, a silent testament to Mr. Scotch’s extravagant, wasteful habits. The ones still containing liquid were set aside for proper disposal, their contents too precious to simply discard. Small paper plates, dotted with crumbs, joined the sea of red.

I heard the familiar murmur of voices, then the distinct clink of ice. A few more guests remained, somewhere off with Mr. Scotch himself, lost in the haze of conversation and expensive spirits. Once I was sure I'd collected all the plates and empty cups, I dragged the bulging bag into the kitchen, the plastic rasping against the marble floor. I grabbed one of the platters, intending to gather all the liquid-filled cups. Footsteps approached from the front of the house, heavy and uneven.

“You do have a magnificent house, Hunter.” The voice slurred, followed by a hearty, slightly off-key laugh. They’d both had their fair share of alcoholic beverages tonight.

“Skye! Call a cab for Mr. Walls here!”

“Yes, sir.” It wasn’t a question, it was a command.