CHAPTER 51
Wash the thoughts. Wash the memories. Wash the part of me that liked it.
But it doesn’t go away.
It’s not on my skin anymore.
It’s under it.
Eventually, the ache in my bones catches up. The adrenaline thins, leaving me hollow and too heavy to hold up. My body drags itself out of the tub like a ghost of its former self.
At least I avoided the faint bloodstain where my clothes were.
Something in me will remember to clean that up later.
Towel. Hair wrap. Lotion I don’t remember applying.
I stare at my reflection in the fogged-up mirror and barely recognize myself. My eyes are different. Like something I’ve never seen is looking back at me.
I tiptoe to the bathroom door and pause.
What if he’s still out there?
He, as in the guy in the mask.
Not the dead one outside, marinating in moonlight and eye gravy.
No, the other one. The one who’s been watching me. Carrying me like I’m breakable—and his.
I press my ear to the wood.
Silence.
Well, that’s not comforting.
I crack the door just wide enough to peek.
Dexter looks up at me.
Perfectly clean. Comically fluffy. Settled in his tiny bed like a spoiled croissant, gnawing on a bone with all the menace of a slightly drunk toddler.
He’s wearing a bow tie.
A pink one.
The one that came with that ridiculous golfer outfit I bought him during an emotional blackout in a boutique aisle. He’s freshly groomed, snaggletooth working overtime like none of tonight ever happened.
Like I didn’t make him a criminal accomplice.
Like he’s not technically a witness.
“Hey, you little fuzz-narc,” I whisper.
He stops chewing. Ears perk.
Then trots over like the most joyful of murder partners.
He’s not judging me.
Not Dexter.
He’s just glad I’m here. And it’s enough to almost make me feel okay.
Not safe. Not calm.
But okay enough.
I bend to pick him up, still damp and towel-wrapped, and whisper into his ear like a prayer:
“I’m gonna need you to not eat any more eyeballs, okay?”
He sneezes in my face.
Which, honestly, feels fair.
On the bed, my favorite pajamas are laid out with military precision: the cotton tee that says DEFENSE RESTS across the front, matching pants with little pink gavels, and fuzzy slippers at the foot like some boutique-hotel turndown service from hell.
And… underwear.
A lacy, blush-pink pair. Folded. Centered. Like a gift that sayswear these for me tonight.
My face goes hot. Not from the bath.
From embarrassment.
Because I know he’s watching. He said it. He meant it. He’s probably watching me right now—through something I can’t see.
I clutch Dexter tighter against my chest like he’s a chastity charm.
He sneezes again. Useless.
Downstairs is worse.
The lights are low—comfortably dim. Calming. Like a spa. Or a serial killer’s nesting-doll lair.
On the coffee table, my favorite wine is already poured in my favorite glass.
My eyes flick to the side door. Beyond it—somewhere past the edge of the light—is the body. The blood. The mess I made and walked away from.
Fear prickles up my spine like someone left the A.C. on and didn’t tell me.
And then the burner phone chirps from beside the glass.
I jump like it barked.
Dexter growls. One short, offended sound. Likecan you not.
The screen lights up.
UNKNOWN: It’s okay. Everything is clean.
My breath comes in slow. Then faster. Then slow again, like I’m trying to trick my lungs into believing this is fine.
That I’m fine.
That a stalker isn’t reading my mind and reassuring me.
I look around.
The drawer I know I left a bloody handprint on—gone. Wiped away like a magic trick.
The floor I tracked with bloody shoes.
All clean.
I turn in a slow circle. No lens. No red lights. No suspicious black dots.
He’s thorough.
Dexter trots into the living room and hops onto the couch, curling up like this is just another work night. Maybe for him it is. Maybe for me too.
I pick up the wine and hold it like a church offering.
I keep waiting.
A knock at the door.
A scream from the hallway.
An eyeball to roll out from under the couch and wink likeHey girl, miss me?
But nothing does.
Eventually I ease open the side door, expecting to find either a body or a police squad.
Instead, I find takeout.
No blood. No body.
No Dexter gnawing on a severed toe.
It’s just food. My favorite and still hot.
The absence of carnage feels almost worse. Like the crime was too neatly erased and I’m the only one who remembers. My mind skitters—until the scent hits me.
Warm spices. Garlic. That buttery perfume of toasted naan.
Something inside me crumples.
I close the door, lock it, and then relock it. Engage the security system for the illusion of safety—because that’s what we’re working with now.