The Morbid Socialite

The soft steps of shoeless feet moved at an uneven pace down the hall behind her. A third sound, higher up, accompanied: a hand against the wall. The steps stopped and the moment seemed to last a lifetime before there came a scramble, a heavy thud, and more frantic movement in the direction of the gladstone bag. A pause, a wet and trembling sigh, then the sharp sound of the bag snapping shut, metal impacting metal. It was a biting sound, definitive and intentional and most assuredly made loud enough for the Maven to hear. Nothing else came after. No audible breaths, no footsteps, no word or sound escaped the dreadful, prolonged silence.