The last message Addi Smith ever sent—“We’ll be there soon.”—was timestamped at 11:47 p.m. on February 18, 2026, from her phone inside room 2841 at the Luxor Hotel & Casino on the Las Vegas Strip. Less than two hours later, at 1:32 a.m. on February 19, security forced entry after repeated unanswered knocks and the Do Not Disturb sign still hanging past checkout. What they found has left investigators and the public grappling with one of the most perplexing hotel-room deaths in recent Las Vegas history: Addi, 24, and her best friend Tawnia McGeehan, also 24, unresponsive on the king-sized bed, fully clothed, no visible signs of violence or forced entry.
Metro Police Homicide detectives quickly ruled out robbery—the women’s purses, phones, jewelry, and identification were untouched. The room safe remained locked and unopened. The door was latched from the inside when security arrived. Initial scene observations noted several empty mini-bar alcohol bottles, a single drinking glass with dark liquid residue, and a small quantity of white powdery substance on the nightstand later field-tested as consistent with fentanyl. Toxicology results, expected within days, are anticipated to confirm a polysubstance overdose, though the medical examiner has not yet issued an official cause of death.
What has transformed this apparent overdose into a case that refuses to close cleanly is a single piece of hotel stationery discovered beneath Addi’s phone on the bedside table. Written in vivid red ink in careful, even handwriting were three short lines:
“We’ll be there soon. Don’t wait up. Love always.”
The phrasing echoes the final outgoing text almost word-for-word, raising immediate questions: Did one of the women write the note as a farewell? Was it composed earlier and left intentionally? Or—most disturbingly—was it placed there by a third party after the women were already incapacitated? Handwriting experts are comparing the script to known samples from both women’s personal belongings recovered from their Henderson homes. Preliminary analysis leans toward Addi’s penmanship, but the use of bright red ink—unusual for casual notes and symbolically loaded—has kept all possibilities open.
Addi and Tawnia had been inseparable since their Henderson high-school days. Addi worked as a freelance graphic designer and illustrator, frequently sharing colorful artwork and travel photos on Instagram. Tawnia, a licensed esthetician, had opened her own small skincare business in late 2025 and was planning to expand. Friends described both as optimistic, creative, and deeply loyal to each other. Neither had any publicly known history of severe depression, suicidal ideation, or documented substance-abuse issues. Yet several people close to them noted a subtle shift in the final weeks: canceled plans, shorter replies to messages, Instagram stories that felt unusually introspective (“sometimes you just need to disappear for a while”).
Digital forensics uncovered troubling search history on both phones in the days leading up to the trip: queries such as “easiest way to overdose on pills and alcohol,” “how long until someone stops breathing after fentanyl,” “Las Vegas hotel overdose stories,” and “painless exit methods.” Deleted messages recovered from Addi’s device included exchanges with an unsaved number discussing “one last night to let go” and “no more hurting.” The same unsaved number received the final “We’ll be there soon” text; it belonged to a prepaid burner phone purchased with cash in Henderson two weeks earlier. The device has not been recovered, and its last ping was near the Luxor shortly after the message was sent.
Investigators are pursuing multiple threads. One focus is whether the women planned a consensual exit and the red-ink note was their joint goodbye. Another is whether a third party—perhaps someone they met online or through social circles—encouraged, facilitated, or even coerced the act. The presence of fentanyl-laced pills (if confirmed) has led detectives to examine whether the women knowingly purchased counterfeit medication or were given tainted substances under false pretenses. Hotel surveillance shows no one entering or leaving the room after the women checked in, but the Luxor’s corridor cameras do not cover every angle, leaving a narrow window of uncertainty.
The Henderson and Las Vegas communities have responded with grief and solidarity. A joint memorial is being organized at the Henderson Pavilion, and a GoFundMe created by family members has raised over $195,000 for funeral costs, mental-health support for grieving friends, and donations to fentanyl-overdose prevention initiatives. Nightly vigils outside the Luxor draw hundreds—candles, flowers, notes, and portraits of the two women smiling together form a growing tribute near the main entrance.
Metro Police have publicly appealed for the recipient of the final text to come forward, stressing they are not currently treated as a suspect but may hold crucial insight into the women’s mindset. Lt. Jason Johansson of Homicide urged anyone with information about the handwriting, the red-ink note, or contacts the women had in the days before February 19 to call the dedicated tip line.
The red-ink message remains the emotional epicenter of the case. “We’ll be there soon. Don’t wait up. Love always.” Three simple lines that could be a tender goodbye between lifelong friends… or the last echo of two young women who felt they had no other way out. Investigators continue to piece together timelines, digital footprints, toxicology, and witness statements, determined to answer whether this was a tragic pact sealed in love and pain—or whether someone else’s hand guided them to that final room.
For now, room 2841 at the Luxor stays sealed, the red-ink note locked in evidence storage, and two families wait for clarity in a city that never sleeps. Addi and Tawnia—best friends who shared laughter, dreams, and now this unimaginable end—left behind a mystery written in red that Las Vegas will not soon forget.
