Killing… killing is a lot of fucking work.
Then, my thoughts spiral, and panic overtakes me. How the fuck am I going to cover this up?
“Shit,” I whisper, dropping my head.
Thankfully, the neighbors are drug addicts, too, and there were many nights when they were in screaming matches that rivaled Mom and Dad’s. Our struggle shouldn’t raise any of their concerns, and even if it did, I doubt they’d be kind enough to call the police.
As for his job, it's not unusual for Dad to not show up without warning. He's lost many jobs over the years, primarily due to him going on binges. Sometimes for weeks at a time. They might call for a week, but eventually, they'll give up.
Same for his friends—they don’t bother coming over unless he’s offering them drugs.
Raymond Devereaux doesn't have anyone that actually gives a shit about him.
But he is in the public eye now.
Francesca used to turn on the TV and show me all the news reports and search parties after I was kidnapped. She would laugh and laugh about how many people were looking for me.
“Look at aaalll those people. And not a single one will find you.”
She found that funny.
And now, I need to ensure that' s exactly what happens. They can never find me. They can never know I came back here.
That couple—Latoya and Devin—might talk to the media. Claim they had me in their house. But they'll never be able to prove it, and eventually, speculation will become just that.
“No evidence,” I whisper. “There can't be any evidence.”
My DNA is all over this house. Finding pieces of my hair or fingerprints on every surface wouldn't be out of the ordinary.
However, on a dead body? That would be catastrophic.
I inhale deeply and then release it slowly, feeling my brain switch off once more.
No one is looking for him yet. I have time to clean up, get Layla situated, and then dispose of his body.
After, I'll take Layla out of here and never look back.
“What to do with you,” I wonder aloud, heading for the limited cleaning supplies beneath the sink, racking my brain and trying to remember the crime documentaries I've seen Mom watch and if any of them ever talked about getting rid of a body.
“Melting him?” I ask myself under my breath. “No. Too messy, and I don't even know the proper chemicals. Can't bury him or put him in a lake. That always gets people caught.”
My mind turns over idea after idea while I wrap his body in garbage bags, rejecting them all for one reason or another.
And just as I begin to scrub the floor, I remember one episode I had seen. A proverbial light bulb illuminates, and I pause as I think it over.
“Pig farm,” I whisper, a slight grin curling my lips.
And I know just where to find one.
Molly
Present
2022
“If I would've known that you were going to throw yourself all over me in the shower, I would've directed you to the guest bathroom,” I mutter, pulling a clean white tank top over my head.
He cocks a brow, unimpressed. “At which point did I give the indication that I'd keep my hands to myself? We'll play it back, and I'll redo that part so you're not confused anymore.”
I roll my eyes.
“I'm not confused,” I deny vehemently, shooting him an annoyed look.
Yet, I am.
I'm confused and a fucking liar.
He wears only his boxers—pretty much the only article of clothing that didn't get dirty. His shirt is a lost cause, leaving him with his black jeans and leather jacket, but regardless, he'll likely go home smelling like a pigpen. It takes a special kind of soap to get it out, but I won't divulge that information, purely because I’m irritated with him.
Even more, I'm angry he's not a sensible person who carries extra clothes on hand. His body is downright distracting, making it extremely hard to remember why I'm annoyed.
Right. Because he fucked me in the shower again and reminded me that sex can actually be… so good. It took years to forget that after the first time we met. And now I've relapsed and become addicted all over again.
Fucker.
Keeping my back to him, I pump a few dollops of lotion into my hand and start slathering it over my hands, arms, and chest. His eyes are like two little lasers burning into me, but I do my best to ignore him.
It was just sex.
That's it.
“You're about to kick me out,” he surmises from behind me. I jump, not expecting his voice to be right at my goddamn back.
“What else would we do? Play ponies and have a pillow fight?” I snap.
I sound defensive. I am defensive.