Page 15 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

And Edgar, Jesus. That man reeks of the kind of secrets I need. The mortuary silence, the gloves, the calm like he’s already imagined me bent over a coffin and smiled about it.

Would he help me move a body? Quietly? Cremate something for me, “oops, my dog died” except it’s a 200-pound misogynist who thought choking me was cute.

I bet Edgar wouldn’t even blink. He’s probably already got tags for “Unknown John Doe #7.”

And I imagine he fucks like a eulogy. Slow. Intense. Like a man saying goodbye to your sanity.

And why is my mind circling back to Carson. I don’t even want Carson. I don’t like Carson. But the way he looked at me, like a question he’s dying to answer himself, it lingers. And he’s a cop, which means he will come back. With questions. Maybe with corpse-sniffing dogs. Maybe with a warrant.

I really need to find out if Edgar can do private pet cremations. And if I can pass Derik off as a Saint Bernard in a hoodie.

Three dates left. Three nights to confirm if Derik’s just a walking red flag or a legit predator. Then I decide if Derik walks into date two or straight into the crawlspace.

And if I make it through that without jumping Blake’s bones on the lawn like a feral cat in heat? I deserve another cookie.

I’m exhausted from pacing and hyped up on sugar by the time I hit the bed. My legs ache. My stomach’s a mess of snickerdoodles and existential dread. There’s a cookie crumb in my bra I can’t be bothered to fish out. But my brain is still buzzing. Still crawling with all the things I don’t like to feel, rattled, exposed, off-balance.

I’ve been doing this a long time. Perfecting it for Walter.

And maybe I’ve been getting cocky. Lazy. Like I’ve got time.

I don’t.

It’s time to till the garden. Time to stop dragging my feet and finish Derik before I miss my shot. Before the whole thing spirals sideways and Walter gets to ride off into the sunset, smiling, untouched, leaving more women broken in his wake.

That can’t happen. I won’t let it.

Happily ever after is off the table. For men like that, there’s only one ending.

I fall asleep thinking about snickerdoodles, Blake’s tongue, and how long it takes to dissolve a body in lye. I don’t dream. I just plan.

Chapter Seven

Carson

I’m supposed to be finishing this report.

The cursor blinks like it’s waiting for me to admit I’m fucked. I’ve written the same sentence three times and deleted it four. The notes from yesterday’s unofficial questioning sit in front of me, half-typed, half-scribbled, and absolutely useless.

Subject: Jennifer Lane.

Address: Same.

Reason for contact: Question regarding missing persons tip.

Disposition: Cooperative. Odd affect. Potential witness. Not suspect at this time.

I stare at the word “odd.” It feels... wrong. Not inaccurate, but insufficient. She’s not odd. She’s wrong in the way a riptide looks calm from the surface. You could drown in it without ever knowing it was dangerous until your lungs were already full.

Still, I don’t delete it. I just lean back in my chair and pinch the bridge of my nose like that’ll stop the image flooding in again. Her, fingers sticky with sugar, tilting her head at me like she already knew I wouldn’t write her up.

She smiled when she lied, slow and syrupy, like she was undressing me with the punchline. Who the fuck makes murder sound like a promise whispered against your neck?

I told myself it was nothing. Just a weird sense of humor. Some off-kilter coping mechanism. But my gut says it was more than that. My gut has always been good.

She’s small. Too small. Five foot nothing and shaped like temptation. Like a warning no one listens to until it’s too late. Curves for days, no obvious muscle. I don’t care how scrappy sheis, she couldn’t have overpowered a man like Gregory Tramble. The guy was a tank, two hundred and twenty pounds of gym-bro ego.

But up here? In her head? That man wouldn’t see it coming until the plastic wrap kissed his windpipe. And maybe that’s what fucks me up most, how easy it is to picture. How much I believe she could. When I looked at her, I didn’t see fear. I saw calculation. Quiet confidence. Like a woman who already knows the end of the story and just hasn’t told anyone yet.

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