I yanked the blood-soaked tee over my head, then peeled off my bra and panties, and hotfooted it up the stairs to my bedroom, butt-naked and hoping like hell I wasn’t leaving red footprints in my wake.
Fuck me for letting Christopher pick me up for Diane’s barbecue—for letting him know where I lived.
Of course, at the time, if anyone would’ve told me I wouldn’t want McSmiley to come over because I had a corpse in the middle of my floor, I’d have laughed in their face. Because Cordelia Black wouldn’t take that kind of risk. Killing in my own home? Never.
Where did Christopher get this stupid idea anyway? Who wants food delivered this late? Damn Sweet Cordelia and her irresistible ways. She was cute and helpless and patriarchal catnip.
I slid into my bedroom and winced at my reflection in the floor length mirror. Strands of my bleached hair were crimson with Simon’s blood. My hands were covered. My arms. My chin was slick with it, as if Simon was the world’s juiciest piece of watermelon and I’d taken a big bite.
There was the sound of a vehicle—Christopher?—pulling into my driveway. I froze. The front door—had I locked it? Of course I had; I never forgot. But then again, I was never followed by a monster, either. I never left evidence behind at the dump site. Never got caught on camera. Never killed without a plan.
It was an evening of firsts.
Shit.
I yanked my oversized robe—threadbare and ancient—from my closet, and its hanger rattled to the ground. Terry cloth stuck to my blood-dampened skin as I slid it on while sprinting into my attached bathroom. I grabbed a washcloth and cleaned up as well as I could, but it was no use—the blood smeared across my face, stuck in the creases of nose and crusted near my hairline. This was going to take forever.
I didn’t have forever. Think, Cordelia.
A million bottles and tubes lined the counter around my sink. My fingers walked over each one, knocking some to the ground, before grabbing a tube of violet-pigmented hair conditioner to keep those blond highlights bright! This could work. I squeezed enough for three heads into my palms, then yanked it through my bloody tresses, covering the crimson splotches and streaks. I knotted my conditioner-caked hair into a bun on top of my head and covered with one of the disposable shower caps I kept on hand for deep-conditioning treatments.
I leaned close to the mirror. The blood in my hair wasn’t noticeable beneath the mess of purple conditioner. Perfect. My face, however, was still a problem. Time was running out. Christopher would be at my doorstep. Probably I hadn’t locked the door. Probably he’d walk right inside. Probably I’d spend the rest of my life in prison with Diane hating me and Sugar ashamed that her godmother was a murderer.
Fucking Simon.
That couldn’t happen. How did I hide the evidence on my face? Cover it up—same as I had with the conditioner and robe.
I tore through the products on my counter a second time, this time picking each one up and tossing it aside. Toner? No. Serums? Not helpful. Snail mucus? What was I supposed to do with that?
Algae facial mask? That…okay, yes. I squeezed a glob into my hand and smeared the deep-green goop across my cheeks and forehead until only my eyes peeked through. Did I look great? No. In fact, I looked horrible. But neither did I look as if I’d soaked in enough blood to make Elizabeth Bathory jealous.
I found a few abandoned self-tanning mitts in one of the drawers, left over from my oompa-loompa era. Hey, we all make mistakes. I pulled on a pair. They were out of place, but were so much better than bloody fingers. Christopher didn’t seem like the guy who’d notice. Hopefully.
I ran to my bedroom to grab slippers, but outside a car door slammed. I peeked out the window. Christopher was strolling up my walk, his arms filled with bags of Chinese food—enough for an army. Leaping down the stairs and racing past Simon, I made it to the front door and slipped out. Christopher wasn’t close enough to see inside, nor to insist I let him in. But Mango was.
The dog appeared from nowhere and scampered between my legs. Of course she was outside this time of night. Made perfect sense.
I paused before the glitch in my brain worked itself out, and I pulled the door closed. If Mango was traumatized from what she’d find in my kitchen, it was her own nosy fault.
“Hey,” Christopher said. “You okay? What’s that on your face?”
I frowned. “It’s a facial mask. Self-care, you know? I’ve felt sick all day.”
He held up the Chinese takeout. “Then let me take care of you. I have a window of time where I won’t be missed.” He tried to scoot past me, but I sashayed in front of him, pointedly.
“You’re sweet, but not now, okay? Thanks for the food. Really. I’ll call you tomorrow.” How else could I say it? Leave.
“You sure?” His brows furrowed. “If you’re sick, let me help.” Oh right. He was a cub scout. Of course he’d want to fix things.
“I, um.” Think, Cordelia… Get rid of him. My gaze dropped demurely, one of Sweet Cordelia’s best moves. “It’s just…” I almost gasped at what I saw. Thick flecks of blood dotted the top of my feet. I’d forgotten the slippers. I’d ran into my bedroom, but instead of grabbing them, I’d looked out the window. Christopher had been so close.
Shit. I looked up before he could follow my line of sight.
What would McSmiley do if he noticed my bloody feet?
Bloody feet. Blood.
“I’m cramping.” I frowned. It was the ace-in-the-hole to get rid of most men—even former Boy Scouts. “I’d rather not get into the details of my cycle, if that’s okay with you.”
Panic spread over McSmiley’s face. “Oh. Uh—”
“All I want is to lie on the couch, by myself.”
Inside the house, Mango chortled loud enough to wake the dead—not literally, thank god.
“At least let me get the neighbor’s dog and take her home. Then I’ll get out of your hair. You can stretch out and eat Chinese while watching all the ID channel you want.” He moved to step past me again. Again, I blocked him. It was an awkward dance.
“You know?” I couldn’t believe what I was about to say. “I think I want to…cuddle…with Mango.”
Another round of barking sounded from inside, like Mango had overheard and also hated the idea.
“You must be feeling rough.” He chuckled. “You sure? About Mango? I thought you said she was a ‘devil dog’?”
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, then nodded. “Yes. Mango cuddles sound…great.”
He passed me the bags of takeout, and I took them in my clumsy mitted hands. Christopher sighed. “I’m sorry if I’m annoying you with this. Diane said you were—”
“Diane put you up to this?” Of course. I shook my head.
“Well, yeah. She said you were having a rough time at work, and I should do something nice.”
Aw. That tracked. This was exactly the kind of gesture that swept my bestie off her feet. I smiled. My face was beginning to itch from the algae and blood. “That’s sweet. I didn’t know you and Diane talked.”
“We don’t really. We traded numbers at the barbecue so we can make future plans for all of us. This is the first time she’s texted me, though. I thought maybe you knew about it?”
“No.” I shook my head. The dried facial mask cracked from Sweet Cordelia’s forced, overly bright smile. Because if Diane would like it, then Sweet Cordelia would too. And, okay, it was a nice gesture—just incredibly bad timing. “I didn’t tell Diane to tell you to surprise me with food.”
“Oh. Okay.” He frowned, disappointed. “Well.”
“Well,” I echoed.
“Guess I’ll see you later then?”
“Sure.” Wait. No. Be sweet. Inside information would be more useful now than ever, all things considered. I cocked my head to the side, batting my lashes—probably not as effective considering my current cosmetic situation. “Yes. We’ll make plans when I’m feeling better. And thank you. For the food.”
“Don’t mention it.” For once, McSmiley didn’t smile. He stood awkwardly a moment longer, like he wasn’t quite sure how to end the encounter. Leave! Just leave! my inner voice yelled, until finally, he walked back to his car, his strides long and confident.
I waited until his cruiser disappeared from my neighborhood before I returned inside and set the food on the table, then slid off the mitts. My bloodied hands looked like I’d been in a horrible accident.
Oh god—what if, after listening to my excuse about my period—Christopher had pushed his way into the house and saw all the blood splattered around the room? What would he think? I chuckled, remembering the story of how NASA sent a hundred tampons for Sally Ride on her six-day space voyage. The horror that would’ve played over Christopher’s face would’ve made it almost worth it…if Diane’s dead boyfriend hadn’t been lying in the middle of it all like a macabre centerpiece.
Fucking Simon.
Mango whined from her post near the fridge.
I got her cheese, which she snapped from my fingers, but before I could grab her, she darted toward Simon, her nails tapping against the kitchen tile. She slid into the corpse and rolled onto her back, wiggling through the blood as if she were checking something off her bucket list. “Oh, no. Mango, you bitch.”
The white poodle mix looked as if she’d been attacked. This night kept getting longer and longer, because there was no way I could return Mango like this. Sticky crimson splotches matted her long curly fur in streaks and globs. Great.
My own shower had to wait. I quickly splashed water on my face at the kitchen sink and wiped off most of the itchy mask, then scooped up the dog, who now lay on top of Simon’s stomach. To the downstairs bathroom we went.
I ran her a bath, then tossed her collar onto the counter. When I plunged Mango into the water, it bloomed the hue of strawberry puree. Everything felt surreal; there was a corpse in my kitchen, yet here I was, bathing my neighbor’s dog. Wild.
After two shampoos, Mango no longer looked like she was bleeding out, but she still couldn’t go home. On ID channel, it was always something dumb that got people caught—some oversight or random screwup.
Mango would not be my random screwup.
Her hair was matted and stringy with stained splotches of Simon’s DNA. There’d be no explaining that away—not to nosy Mr. Percival.
She’d have to be shaved first—all evidence of Simon removed. I could tell Mr. Percival she got into an open container of paint and a haircut was the only way to get it off. It was almost the truth, actually. Maybe after this he’d do a better job of keeping her away from my house.
Mango yelped, and with her big brown eyes and pathetic wet face, she was almost cute. Almost. I gave her a pat on the head. “You need professional help.”
I’d find a groomer first thing tomorrow. Last time Mango escaped late at night, Mr. Percival hadn’t realized she was gone until morning. Fingers crossed history repeated itself. Last thing I needed was that grouchy old coot knocking on my door when I was dealing with…everything.
“Come on.” I scooped the damp dog into my arms and we trotted upstairs. After moving my shoes to the top shelf, I plopped Mango in the most muffled room in my home—my walk-in closet. She’d be fine.
There were more important things to worry about than the minor comforts of the devil dog.
Things like the corpse in my kitchen.
I unlocked, and relocked the door, then jiggled the knob. Satisfied that no one could open it from the outside, I bounded back upstairs and took the hottest shower of my life. Under the scalding spray is where my best ideas happened, and by the time I shut off the water, I knew exactly what I’d do.
My stomach rumbled as I dressed. Might as well eat. My night was only getting started, and I could use the energy boost.
I took the Chinese food to my sofa and sat cross-legged, shoveling noodles into my mouth and staring at Simon in the kitchen. His head peeked out from behind the island. The entire kitchen was a mess—footprints and blood spray everywhere. If Simon had shown his smoke in the beginning, this could’ve been avoided. He could be wrapped in a tidy cocoon.
Oh well. He was gone. That’s all that mattered.
One last bite, and I set the take-out container on the coffee table and dusted my hands together. Time to get to work. I had a body to move.
A monster to impersonate.
First things first, I loaded Simon onto an extra blanket from the linen closet, and thanks to years of practice, moved him to my guest bathroom, smearing only a little blood in the process. Lifting him into the tub was harder, but I managed. Next, I stripped him and tossed his clothes into my washing machine. I’d need them for my plan.
I changed my own clothes, pulling on some tights, a sweater, and a pair of sneakers before heading to the store. If Simon was going to be my roommate, then I had some shopping to do.