Page 25 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

She’s not like that. She’s the match thrown on dry paper. A woman-shaped catastrophe in lipstick and denim. She’ll ruin me if I let her.

I find myself smiling.If.Who am I kidding.

I smooth my gloves and adjust my cuffs. The scent of sandalwood clings to me. I wore it last time, and she noticed. Her pupils dilated. Her breath caught. I remember. I want her to notice again.

She smiles at me like she already knows where I’ll break. And I’ll let her because somewhere under that manic sparkle is a predator who knows I’m not afraid.

Tires crunch soft against gravel outside.

I press my palms against the counter and breathe deep. I’ve had decades to master composure. But she’s going to fuck it up. I know that already.

And I hope she does.

The sound of her engine cuts, and a beat later, her car door creaks open. I don’t move just yet. I like this moment, the breath between approach and arrival.

I open it.

She looks like Aphrodite crawled out of a murder scene and dared someone to call her crazy. “Edgar.”

I step outside, liking the sound of my name on her lips.

The scent hits me as I approach, putrefaction, sharp with the kind of decay you get from men who deserved to die slower, layered beneath the ghost of vanilla deodorant and fresh sweat.

“Jennifer.” I open the hatch.

She has not so much packed as stuffed them in. Industrial contractor bags, layers of tarp, and one unmistakable hand sticking out like it gave up halfway through the crawl to freedom. The smell hits harder. It’s not the worst I’ve dealt with, but it’s close.

“Jesus,” I say, peering in. “You’ve been busy.”

She shrugs. “There are a lot of dogs in this world.”

No doubt. “There’s seepage.”

“I triple-bagged.”

My god, she’s adorable. “Not disputing your work ethic,” I say, stepping back. “Just saying your SUV smells like a war crime. You’ll need a steam clean.”

“You volunteering?”

I am. “I’ve got the needed supplies. Even though you’ve tarped in here, we’ll want to make sure there’s nothing left. Dog stains aren’t always visible.”

“I’m aware.” Her eyes flick toward the building. “Everything ready?”

I nod. “Prepped and sterilized. Incinerator’s hot.”

She doesn’t move immediately. Just looks at me. Assessing. As if trying to decide whether I’m going to judge her for bringing decomposing men to my doorstep like it’s some fucked-up girl scout fundraiser.

I don’t. “Let me take the worst one first. Which of these charming gentlemen was the most... fragrant?”

“That one,” she says, pointing with her purse. “Steve. He marinated.”

“Noted.”

The bag sloshes. I lift it, weight shifting evenly. Her gaze lingers on my hands.

“I can do it,” she says.

“I know,” I reply. “Capable as you are, it’d be uncivilized to allow it.”

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