Once he’d eaten his fill, Emmett’s killer instinct receded and his logical mind regained control. The
horror of what he’d done overwhelmed him, as if he were happening upon the scene for the first time.
Aaron’s remains lay twisted and gnarled at the base of the door, lids half-closed over rolled-back eyes.
Rib bones poked through the open trench of his torso, curved upward like skeletal hands cupping the
half-eaten apple of his heart.
What the fuck, Emmett thought. WHAT THE FUCK. And in his own apartment. The walls were
splattered, the carpet drenched. Even if he managed to get rid of the body— “Get back!” he shouted as
Tubbs licked curiously at the slow spread of blood.
What was he going to do with the body? He rummaged through the closet, heart hammering. The only
thing even remotely big enough was an oversize duffel bag. Getting Aaron inside proved a macabre sort
of puzzle. He had to remove the extremities with a meat cleaver to get everything to fit. Emmett cursed
when the blade went straight through the kitchen linoleum. There goes the security d eposit.
He’d just managed to force the zipper closed when his phone rang. It was Lizette. He silenced the call,
but there was no hiding this from her. The last thing he needed was her walking in and making a scene.
“Hey,” he answered. “Don’t be mad—” The words tumbled out of her, leaving no space for breath. “You
need to leave, pack your stuff right now, I’m not kidding. If you can’t stay with Ab or Chris, my
parents—”
“Lizette, slow down. What are you talking about?”
“I just finished with that detective guy. He asked me if I recognized them, the clothes.” “Clothes, what
clothes?” “The blue Friday shirt I made you and the tan shorts. They were all bloody, wrapped up in a
trash bag.”
The clothes he was wearing the night he killed Justin Matthews. Someone must’ve found them. “But how
did they know you—?” “The tags. They all fucking say GORDITA on them.” “Fuck!” He should’ve
burned them like he had the other evidence. “What’d you tell them?”
“I said I didn’t know who they belonged to, that I sold hundreds of them on my website. Then they
started asking about you. They mentioned your Taurus —they had a photo of it from your Instagram.”
“Fuck!” “You can’t stay there. As soon as I get home I’ll help you—” “No,” Emmett said. “Don’t come
here. Stay at Mando’s.” “Why? What’s wrong?” When he didn’t answer: “Emmett, tell me you didn’t
—not in the apartment.”
“I couldn’t help it! I can’t always control—” “Oh shit. Oh shit!” “I’m taking care of it, just go to
Mando’s.” He ended the call, then stomped around with his hands balled into fists, a vein throbbing in his
forehead. He snatched a pillow off the couch and screamed so hard he felt lightheaded.
His phone rang again. It wasn’t Lizette, not even his mom. Flustered, he answered. “Hello?” “Hi,
Emmett.” “Dr. Saito. How are you?” he said, impersonating someone who hadn’t just finished
dismembering his boyfriend.
“Probably better than you, all things considered.” She knows. But how?
Then he remembered the post, a disaster almost equal to the state of his carpets. “Look, I—I’m really
sorry about today. I’m sure that wasn’t the reaction you were—” “I’m not calling about the
announcement,” Saito said.
“You’re not?” “Time is of the essence, so I’ll make this short: we know about your side effects and the
issues they’ve been causing you.” Dread bobbed like cold vomit up Emmett’s throat. “I-issues?”
“Four by my count. Unless you’ve added one since Justin Matthews.” Emmett was going to be sick. She
knew. She was going to hand him over to the police. “How—? W-what’re you—?” “Don’t worry. I have
no intention of turning you in. Monstera wants to help you. Are you at home?”
He didn’t answer. “Pack a bag. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I have a safe place you can stay until we
get everything sorted out.” “No—I can’t—I can’t leave right now.” “Has something happened?”
“No,” Emmett insisted. His eyes flicked unconsciously to the duffel bag in the corner of the room.
“Everything’s fine.” “Jesus fucking Christ,” Saito said. “Just stay there. And for fuck’s sake, don’t kill
anyone else.”
Emmett showered the blood off him, dressed, and packed a bag. He couldn’t settle, returning to the living
room window ten times in an hour before he spotted a large van parking on the street. The words
Bio-Clean—Crime Scene Sanitation Experts were printed on the side.
A few moments later, there was a knock at the door. Through the pe ephole he spied four strangers. “Mr.
Truesdale?” said the man in front. “We’re here to help.”
Emmett said nothing. Could this be a trick? “Jenni Saito sent us.” And when he still did not answer:
“We’re coming in—” Emmett reached for the lock a split second too late. The door swung open and the
man bulldozed in ahead of his colleagues. The foursome were completely unfazed by the state of the
apartment or the blood squelching beneath their shoes.
“Who are you?” Emmett said, rushing to close the door behind them. “What are you doing?” One of them
had a duffel of her own; she tossed it onto the couch, unzipped it, and began to distribute folded-up
rubber garments.
“We’ll take it from here,” the man said as his colleagues donned hazmat suits, goggles, and medical
masks. “But—” Another knock at the door. Another glance through the pe ephole. This time Emmett
didn’t hesitate to open up.
“Ready to go?” said Saito, standing in the doorway. Emmett didn’t see the point of resisting. “Come in.
I’ll grab my stuff.” She closed the door behind her. When Emmett returned to the room with a suitcase,
she was using the couch for balance as she scraped blood off the bottom of her stilettos. “Thank god
they’re Louboutins,” she said. In response to Emmett’s obvious confusion, she added, “Red soles. All
set?”
“What about...?” She followed his line of sight to the duffel oozing on the linoleum. She frowned. “I
suppose your friend should come too.”