It’s Sunday night at 11 pm. It’s 4 weeks before the murder.  You are staring at your phone. She is late again. She’s not your girlfriend, at least not in public. You pace around the small room. There’s not much here, except for a large bed, which sits in the middle of the room. It’s layered with crisp white sheets. The room is a little cramped, but it smells fresh and new, like a large open field. You think about your own home, it feels constrained, musty, diluted.  You live in one of those small towns where everyone knows everyone, you have to be discrete.