Page 34 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves
I like having something beautiful to look at when I commit homicide.
Derik’s house doesn’t surprise me. It’s not technically a trailer, no wheels, but it’s doing everything in its power to cosplay as one. I think they call them “modular homes” when they’re parked just outside the trailer court and tarted up with some decorative skirting to hide the axles, like a mullet wearing Spanx.
Curb appeal? Negative six.
He opens the front door before I’ve even killed the engine. Shirtless. And not in a “paint me like one of your French girls” kind of way. More like... “this guy’s been sweating Fireball and vape juice since 3pm.”
I’ve never wanted to put a shirt on someone so badly in my life. Like, aggressively. Preferably made of burlap and regret.
He’s got that party-starter stagger going, already drunk, already cocky, already assuming the night ends with himinside something. The only thing he’s getting inside of is a biodegradable contractor bag if he plays his cards wrong.
I glance in the rearview. No tail. No cruiser. No broody detective to make sure I don’t bury a body before dessert.
Then my eyes drop to the rose in the cupholder. Sorry, Carson. Looks like tonight might be... messy.
I take a breath. “Alright, Jennifer,” I say to myself, swiping the crumbs off my thighs. “Smile like a senator’s wife. Lie like a lifestyle influencer. Kill like you’re folding laundry.”
Derik greets me with a leer and breath that smells like beer, body spray, and possibly the ghost of expired shrimp. He holds the door open like it’s a romantic gesture and not just because he’s hoping I’ll trip on the warped threshold and I’ll faceplant tits-first onto his couch that smells like despair and Hot Pockets.
“Daaaamn, girl,” he slurs. “You look edible.”
Cute. If I had a nickel for every time a man tried to compliment me like he was ordering a combo meal, I could fund my own forensic cleanup service.
“Funny,” I say, stepping inside. “I was just thinking you look digestible. You know. With enough lime juice.”
He laughs as my humor sails right over his head like a drone headed for restricted airspace.
The place reeks of cheap weed and cheaper ambition. There’s a mattress in the living room, a video game paused on the screen, and three different fast-food bags competing for dominance on the coffee table. Romance is alive and well, it just rents by the week and smells like gym socks and old McNuggets.
“I got drinks,” he says, gesturing toward a kitchen that looks like it’s survived one small fire and several bad decisions.
“I brought my own,” I say, sipping air from my flask like it’s vintage Scotch, because I don’t trust anything he’s touched since puberty, including himself.
He grins, not catching the vibe at all.
The date goes downhill quickly. One minute we’re sitting on his lumpy excuse for a couch, and the next his hand is creeping up my thigh like it’s got squatters’ rights.
“I’ve been thinking about you since our last date,” he says, slurring. “Couldn’t stop picturing that mouth.” His hand grips my wrist a little too tightly.
“I know,” I say sweetly. “That’s why I brought something special.”
His eyes light up like a ninja turtle spotting an unattended pizza and he loosens his hold.
“Close your eyes,” I coo.
He obeys. Because men like Derik always assume the girl who plays coy is about to blow them instead of blow up their life.
I reach into my purse. Past the lipstick, the mints, the tiny vial of blood-stain remover. My fingers close around the box cutter. It’s pink. Bedazzled. Gifted to me by a woman I met in therapy, who left her fiancé after he insulted her cat.
“Okay,” I say, smiling wide. “Now hold still.”
The sound of the blade snapping out is subtle. But the aftermath isn’t.
It’s over fast. A neat slice, a soft thud, and the sound of Derik gurgling his final dumbass thought into a throw pillow that died of shame years ago. I’m very good at this now.
I step back, exhale, and brush a smear of something off my blouse. Still wearable. Bless you, polyester.
The room falls quiet, aside from the soft buzz of a fruit fly circling the open beer can on the table.
