10 Hours After She Left With Her New BF For Hawaii, He K!lled Her When She Discovered He Had.. | HO

Detective Carla Washington arrived about ninety minutes after the body was discovered. She was 45, twenty years in, and specialized in the kind of deaths that show up wearing a mask. She walked the suite slowly, letting her eyes do what people’s panic wouldn’t.

Registration confirmed the room was booked under Simone Wilson of Atlanta, June 8 through June 10. A second name was attached: Trey Johnson, 25. Except Trey wasn’t there.

The hotel manager, Robert King, gave her the first piece that didn’t fit. “He left around six this morning,” King said. “Travel bag. Said it was urgent business. He didn’t check out at the front desk. Just… rushed.”

Washington didn’t write it down right away. She listened first, because people tell the truth more easily when you’re not busy proving you heard them.

Concierge Antonio Martinez remembered them from check-in: the elegant middle-aged woman who tipped like she was celebrating something, and the younger man who looked like the carpet cost more than his comfort. “She was attentive,” Martinez said, choosing his words. “Like she wanted him to have the best time.”

Medical Examiner Diana Rivera did the initial look-over. No obvious external injuries. Jewelry still in place. No sign of a robbery, no broken glass, no dramatic mess. But Rivera tapped the bluish tone of Simone’s face with a gloved finger. “This reads like asphyxia,” she said. “How, we’ll confirm.”

Washington stood in the bathroom doorway and noticed what wasn’t there: no men’s toiletries, no second set of anything. Closets held women’s clothing. The bathroom had one set of cosmetics. If Trey slept here, he slept like a ghost.

In the lobby, concierge Marcus Brown said he’d seen a young man early that morning. “Agitated,” Brown said. “Kept checking his phone. Left fast. Refused a taxi from us.”

CCTV filled in the rest in a language cameras speak fluently: time stamps and body language. On June 8, the couple ate dinner at the hotel restaurant, then walked on the beach. Simone looked happy, leaning into the moment. Trey looked pensive, as if he was already rehearsing an argument he didn’t want to have. Around midnight, they entered the elevator together.

At 5:57 a.m., Trey walked out of the hotel briskly, travel bag in hand. Same bag he arrived with, but his face had changed—tight, guarded, eyes fixed on the exit like it was a lifeboat.

The neighbors supplied the soundtrack. The Davises in the next room said around midnight they heard quiet music and muffled voices, the kind of romantic noise you ignore because it’s not your business.

Then came a woman’s laughter—too loud, too sharp, not the warm kind. Michael Davis, 60, described what followed: “Like someone hit a mute button.” Ten minutes of silence. Then furniture moving. Then the TV turned up loud and stayed that way until morning.

Washington stared at the note again. Shame. Humiliation. Forgiveness.

And in her mind, one thought kept circling the same drain: if this was truly a private decision, why would someone need an audience of noise?

Here’s the hinged sentence that changes how everything feels: the suite didn’t look like a tragedy that happened, it looked like a tragedy someone tried to edit.

Rivera’s preliminary time of death landed between midnight and 3:00 a.m. There were no classic finger marks on Simone’s neck. The pressure indicators suggested a softer object—something like a pillow.

Then the crime scene team peeled back the polish.

The bed looked fresh, too fresh, like a hotel brochure. But analysis showed it had been stripped, washed, and remade. The bathroom carried traces of aggressive cleaning agents. In the shower drain they found hair and fibers—pieces of Simone that didn’t go down as neatly as someone hoped.

Trash cans had been emptied and rinsed. Scraps of paper—shredded remnants—were lodged in the ventilation system as if someone had tried to feed their panic into the building.

The suicide note didn’t survive the lab. Handwriting analysis said the words weren’t Simone’s. Uneven lines, inconsistent slant, pressure changes: stress. A forgery. Worse, the content felt generic, like someone writing what they thought a “note” should sound like. The idea of “shame and humiliation” didn’t match Simone’s profile, a woman described by colleagues as self-possessed, successful, not easily cornered by her own life.

Airline records gave Washington a clean, ugly timestamp. Trey changed his return ticket from June 10 to June 9 at 5:00 a.m., roughly two hours after the estimated time of death window began. Paid cash.

At Honolulu airport, cameras captured him checking in around 6:30 a.m., eyes scanning, body tense, pushing the process along like every second could turn into handcuffs. An airline employee, Thomas Green, remembered him because he kept asking about connections through Los Angeles, paid for add-ons in cash, and refused to check his bag.

A taxi driver, Kone Nahal, confirmed the ride from the hotel to the airport around 5:00 a.m. “Quiet,” he said. “Nervous. Asked me to drive faster. Tipped big and ran.”

By noon, the picture was sharp enough to cut: a romantic vacation in paradise had shifted into a cold-blooded ending, and someone had sprinted away from it before sunrise.

But motive is the part the public always wants, the one that makes a horror feel explainable. Washington didn’t let herself guess. She built.

Simone Wilson wasn’t a person who drifted into trouble. She was a corporate attorney in Atlanta with an annual income around $450,000, partner at a prestigious firm, owner of a Buckhead apartment worth about $800,000, with investments and a clean record.

Friends called her a planner, a controller—not in a cruel way, but in the way high achievers learn to survive. Her marriage to another attorney ended in 2017 without scandal. After that, she kept relationships light, work heavy, loneliness hidden behind competence.

In early 2024, she tried online dating. Her friend Kimberly Rogers, a psychologist, helped her craft a profile that said “independent” without screaming “untouchable.”

Trey Aaron Johnson came from a different country inside the same country. Born November 8, 1998, Oakland. Working-class family. A father disabled after a job injury. A mother working steady, not easy. Trey grew up in a neighborhood where ambition had to fight for oxygen.

He taught himself coding, started freelance web development, moved to Los Angeles in 2022 hoping to level up. The tech market didn’t care about hope. He rented a room with roommates and lived in the gap between who he was and who he wanted to look like.

A roommate, Tisha Brown, described him as polite but private, spending most of his time behind a laptop, ordering expensive takeout while complaining about being broke. Bank records later showed the pattern: income swinging from $1,500 to $5,000 per month, spending like he needed an image more than stability.

In March 2024, Trey joined a dating app branded for “elite connections.” He padded his profile, called himself the founder of a web studio, paid $500 for professional photos in expensive clothes at places meant to signal success. He listed travel and high-end hobbies like he’d already arrived.

Simone messaged him first—March 23, 2024—drawn to youth, looks, and the story he sold with confidence. Their chats stayed on technology and business at first. He was charming, attentive, the kind of conversationalist who asked the right questions and mirrored the right admiration. On video calls, he controlled the frame, hid the modest room behind careful angles and lighting.

Their first in-person date was April 15 at an expensive Beverly Hills restaurant while Simone was in town for work. Trey bought a suit, rented a nice car for the day, studied the wine list like it was a test. A waiter remembered how he watched Simone closely, copying her cadence with staff, learning how to belong in her world in real time.

They kept going. In May, Trey flew to Atlanta for a weekend—on Simone’s dime. She paid for the flights and hotel, explaining she had more resources. He accepted, but asked her not to mention it to friends. At a corporate event, one of Simone’s colleagues noted Trey’s discomfort among lawyers and executives. He stayed quiet when conversations turned to politics and economics, as if every topic was a door he didn’t have a key for.

Still, Simone looked proud. In love. More youthful, more hopeful, like the romance was returning something she’d misplaced.

Underneath, tension built in the one place you can’t litigate: pride.

By late May, Simone suggested Hawaii for their three-month milestone. She picked luxury, scheduled romance like a project plan: dinners, excursions, spa treatments. Trey offered to split costs. Simone insisted on paying—she wanted to do something nice, she could afford it, and she meant it as love, not leverage.

The total hit Simone’s card at $11,600. Not a life-changing amount for her. A life-defining imbalance for him.

Here’s the hinged sentence that locks the door behind them: the trip wasn’t just a vacation—it was a mirror, and one of them couldn’t stand what it reflected.

In early June, Simone told Rogers she sensed Trey pulling back, especially about money and status. At the same time, Trey sought medical help in L.A. for anxiety, sleep trouble, and an “intimate issue” he couldn’t talk about without flinching. Tests ruled out a physical cause; providers noted high anxiety and low self-esteem. He was urged toward therapy and mild anti-anxiety meds. Records show he didn’t follow through consistently.

On June 7, Simone flew into Los Angeles for a quick overnight before Hawaii. She stayed at the Beverly Hills Hotel. They met for dinner. A maître d’ remembered the mismatch: Simone animated, planning, glowing; Trey distracted, apologizing, stepping away for “phone calls.” Cameras recorded them going up to her room around 10:00 p.m. Trey left at 12:15 a.m., anxious, glancing back at the building like he’d left something burning behind him.

June 8, they met at LAX for a 9:00 a.m. Hawaiian Airlines flight. Check-in saw Simone excited, thanking him for coming, talking about plans on the island. Trey stayed quiet, focused on paperwork, avoiding eye contact. In the lounge, Simone shopped duty-free for souvenirs. Trey sat with eyes closed, refusing her invitations to browse.

On the flight, a first-class attendant noticed the dynamic: Simone initiating conversation, ordering champagne to celebrate; Trey polite but distant, sleeping or wearing headphones. Simone read guides, took notes, tried to pull him into the future.

Honolulu greeted them at 2:00 p.m. Warm air, bright light, the island doing what islands do—selling the idea that you can start over. A taxi driver remembered Simone taking photos and asking questions, Trey looking out the window like he was passing through someone else’s dream.

They checked into the Royal Hawaiian at 2:15 p.m. Suite 1237, ocean view, 80 square meters of curated romance: living room, king bed, marble bath, balcony, fresh flowers, fruit, and the kind of quiet that’s supposed to feel expensive. Simone tipped generously, asked about services. Trey stood aside with luggage, silent, overwhelmed by luxury that didn’t feel like his.

They toured Oahu—Diamond Head, Hanauma Bay, Nu‘uanu Pali Lookout—booked through concierge. The guide said Simone was engaged, curious, joyful; Trey answered in short syllables, minimal enthusiasm. At the Diamond Head lookout, Simone asked strangers to take their photo. In the image later pulled by detectives, Simone hugs him and smiles; Trey’s smile is tight, forced, like he’s holding something in place.

Back at the hotel, Simone booked dinner at Surf and Turf for 8:00 p.m., ordered orchids delivered to their room as a surprise. Around dinner, she wore a new dress and expensive jewelry. Trey wore a new-looking suit. A waiter saw Simone toasting, complimenting, planning tomorrow. Trey stared at the ocean or the menu, physically present, emotionally elsewhere.

During the main course, Simone handed him a gift: a Swiss watch worth about $3,000. “For us,” she said, according to staff who witnessed the moment. “To mark it.” Trey accepted it, but his face didn’t bloom; it tightened. Cameras caught him opening the box and freezing for a beat too long.

That watch becomes important later, not as romance, but as receipt—proof of the imbalance that kept tightening like a knot.

After dinner they walked Waikiki Beach at 10:30 p.m. A beach guard saw them: Simone holding his arm, talking softly; Trey pensive, distant. They returned at 11:15 p.m., Simone leaning against him, whispering something, Trey nodding with a serious expression.

The suite had been staged for intimacy: candles, rose petals, chilled champagne, chocolates, soft Hawaiian music through the audio system. Neighbor Michael Davis heard quiet music and muffled voices. Room service got a call from 1237 at 11:40 p.m.—a female voice ordering a light bite and another bottle of champagne.

Delivered at midnight. The server said Simone opened the door in loungewear, slightly disheveled, friendly, generous with payment, but didn’t invite him in. He didn’t see Trey.

Just after midnight, corridor cameras showed a woman in a robe walking to the ice machine and returning with a bucket. Normal. Routine. The kind of movement that would’ve stayed invisible if the night didn’t later demand to be reconstructed.

Then came the laughter, the neighbor said. Loud. Unnatural. The kind that makes you pause in bed and wonder if you misheard.

Then the silence.

Then the sounds of things being moved and cleaned.

Then the TV blaring a music channel like a wall being built out of noise.

Here’s the hinged sentence that turns a romance package into a crime scene: when someone turns up the TV at 2:04 a.m., it’s rarely because they want to dance.

The floor staff noticed odd details, too. A night-shift housekeeper remembered seeing a wet towel placed under the door as if someone had wiped the floor, a strange choice for a guest and stranger still for a suite that cost what it cost.

At 2:47 a.m., the door to 1237 opened slightly on camera. No one stepped out. At 3:15 a.m., a man’s hand hung a “Do Not Disturb” sign without showing a face.

Rivera’s full autopsy added what the staged note couldn’t erase. The injuries suggested pressure from a soft object against the face—consistent with a pillow—held with sustained force. There were subtle marks indicating Simone tried to fight back: faint wrist impressions, small bruises on her legs, tiny signs of resistance that told a story without words.

Under her nails, technicians found fibers and skin particles from someone else. Alcohol levels matched moderate champagne consumption. No drugs, no toxins. Evidence suggested recent intimate contact without signs of coercion—consensual until something flipped.

The scene itself screamed cleanup. Pillowcases had been washed, but hair remained trapped in seams. Bedding had been scrubbed in the bathroom, dried, remade. The trash was cleaned out. Bits of paper and a discarded condom were found in the vent—contradicting any simplistic “she did this because she was heartbroken” storyline.

Fingerprint work found Simone’s prints where they belonged—normal surfaces. Trey’s prints appeared in places that suggested frantic handling during cleanup: bathroom handles, window frames, surfaces people tend to wipe when they’re erasing themselves. Most damning: his prints on the note. The paper had been held, written on, then placed.

At 4:30 a.m., cameras recorded Trey in the lobby asking for an early checkout. He told night staff it was an urgent work call. He looked keyed up, kept checking his phone. Staff noticed scratches on his arms and neck. He claimed it was an allergic reaction to tropical plants. His clothes were wrinkled, hair disheveled, the look of someone who hadn’t slept but didn’t want anyone to ask why.

He paid for incidentals in cash, even though the stay and services had been covered on Simone’s card at check-in. “I don’t want to wake her,” he said, according to staff. “I’ll handle it.”

At about 5:00 a.m., he waited outside, avoiding eye contact, stepping out and back as if he expected someone to run after him. A taxi took him to the airport. By 6:30, he was in the terminal, rushing, scanning, trying to turn distance into innocence.

Once detectives pulled Trey’s medical and counseling records with proper court process, a motive began to take shape—not one that excused anything, but one that explained the fuse. He’d been seeking help for anxiety and an intimate performance issue for months. Providers documented “anticipatory anxiety,” the fear that becomes the problem.

A psychologist later described him as carrying a painful mix: grandiose self-image layered over deep insecurity, especially around status and masculinity. Witnesses—roommates, former dates, professional contacts—described him as sensitive to criticism, especially from women, and prone to disproportionate anger when he felt disrespected.

In a controlled setting, those traits look like ego. In a private suite, lit by candles, surrounded by money he didn’t earn, facing a moment he feared, they can look like a trap.

The reconstruction detectives settled on went like this: after returning to the room, Simone—buoyed by romance, champagne, that ocean-view optimism—initiated intimacy.

Trey, under pressure and already stressed, struggled. Simone tried to diffuse the awkwardness with laughter and a light remark, intending kindness, not cruelty. Trey heard it as mockery, humiliation, the worst of his internal narrative confirmed out loud.

He reacted in a flash. A pillow. Pressure. A struggle measured not in punches or weapons, but in minutes that could not be undone.

Afterward, panic turned into calculation. Turn up the TV. Clean the sheets. Wash the pillowcases. Draft a note that sounds like what movies sound like. Place it neatly. Put up “Do Not Disturb.” Leave before sunrise. Buy time by buying a new flight with cash.

Here’s the hinged sentence that ends the guessing: an impulsive act can happen in seconds, but a cover story takes hours.

A federal warrant was issued after the suicide theory collapsed under forensics, video, and witness statements. For a brief window, Trey’s trail went thin around Los Angeles—no rental car, no obvious official taxi, movements designed to avoid cameras.

But investigators tracked credit card and phone activity, and on June 11, 2024, law enforcement arrested Trey at his mother’s apartment in Oakland.

He didn’t resist. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept, someone whose body was still trying to run while the walls stayed put. They seized his phone, wallet, a small amount of cash. No weapons. No drugs.

His mother, Lissa Johnson, was stunned. She told agents he’d come home the night before, depressed, saying he and his girlfriend had “problems.” She didn’t know the word “problems” had been used as a curtain.

In the first interrogation, Trey leaned on the easiest story: he’d been there, he slept, he woke up to something unthinkable, he panicked and left. Detective Washington laid out the evidence patiently—the asphyxia indicators, the forged note, the cleaning, the timeline, the cash rebooking, the scratches, the fingerprints. The story fell apart in the room like paper in water.

The next day, June 12, Trey confessed. He described a conflict after a failed intimate moment, the laugh that he heard as humiliation, the rage that took over. He said he pressed a pillow to Simone’s face to make it stop, insisting he didn’t mean to end her life, insisting he didn’t realize how far he’d gone until she didn’t move. He admitted to the cleanup, the note, the attempt to stage the scene, the early flight meant to buy an alibi.

A forensic psychiatric evaluation found he was under severe emotional strain but still capable of understanding what he was doing and what it meant. No condition that would erase responsibility. Personality issues, yes. Narcissistic traits, low self-esteem, intense sensitivity to perceived disrespect. But he knew right from wrong—especially once he started writing his way out of it.

The preliminary hearing in federal court in Hawaii charged him with second-degree murder with aggravating circumstances. The defense pushed for a lesser classification, arguing heat-of-the-moment without premeditation. The prosecution pointed to the sustained nature of the act and the deliberate cover-up afterward.

Trial began August 15 and lasted six weeks. Jurors watched the hotel footage, heard staff describe a nervous young man sprinting into dawn, listened to forensic experts explain why the note wasn’t hers and why the injuries weren’t self-inflicted. They heard about Simone’s life—her career, her discipline, her careful planning—and about Trey’s life—his image-building, his insecurity, the pressure points that made him volatile.

Simone’s parents, Robert and Dorothy Wilson, attended quietly. Her colleagues described her as brilliant, decent, loyal. A woman who worked hard, lived clean, and didn’t deserve to have her story rewritten by someone else’s shame.

On September 27, 2024, the jury found Trey guilty of second-degree murder. They acknowledged mitigating context, but not enough to change the charge. On October 5, 2024, the judge sentenced him to 25 years in federal prison.

In the end, the thing that keeps circling back isn’t the ocean view or the champagne or the orchids. It’s that $3,000 Swiss watch—first a gift, then a clue, then a symbol. It sat there like a shiny promise of a future someone couldn’t afford emotionally, ticking through a night where time kept moving even as one person stopped.

And that’s the most brutal math of all: $11,600 can buy first-class seats and a suite on Waikiki, but it can’t buy dignity, and it definitely can’t buy back the air once someone decides a laugh is an attack.