Mold.

“Baby, I’m really sorry, but this bird has to go,” I said, bracing myself for a tantrum. Izzy surprised me, nodding her head in firm agreement.

“I don’t like poopie ducks.”

“There’s a lot not to like about them,” I agreed.

Grabbing a chunk of toilet paper, I fished the little bits of mold off the surface of the water and hit the drain. Now I’d have to bleach the damned tub, which was always a treat—at least I was an expert. Izzy might be all princess when it came to clothing and colors, but when it came to filth she could hold her own with any boy. (Twice now I’d found little worm houses in her room, carefully built out of plastic cups, dirt, and little curtains made out of tissues. She even tucked them in at night, in little worm beds. Ugh . . .)

“Let’s take a quick shower instead,” I told her, reaching for a couple washcloths. Izzy watched carefully as I put them on the bottom of the now-empty tub. Lifting her, I set her back inside on the cloths, then stood and grabbed the showerhead. It had a nice long hose specifically for times like this. Painter had installed it after she’d taken a mud bath, and we’d had to spray her off outside.

“Close your eyes,” I warned her, gently sluicing the water across the clumps of frosting. It didn’t take long—a quick shampoo and rinse, and then we were done. Wrapping her in a towel, I gave her a fast rub before sending her off to get dressed.

“Do I want to know what the duck poop was?” Jessica asked when I walked back into the kitchen. They’d been busy—the frosting was all cleaned up, the table had been washed, and she was carefully setting the cupcakes into a rectangular cake pan.

“Mold,” I said shortly. Jessica made a face. “Hey, I’ll take that over giving an enema any day!”

“God, do you remember that old guy with the blockage?” Sherri asked. “I’ve never seen so much shit in my life. It just kept coming and coming . . .”

“You have the most disgusting jobs on earth,” Jess declared. “Seriously cannot understand how you do it.”

“Speaking of, can you take my late shift on Thursday night?” Sherri asked me. “There’s a baby shower for a girl I went to high school with.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll have to find someone to watch Izzy that night—the regular sitter is out of town this week. Maybe Loni can, but she’s already watching her on Wednesday, too.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Jess said quickly. “And if she can’t, I’ll come over.”

“Perfect,” said Sherri. “And I’ll cover your shift on Wednesday night.”

I frowned. “I don’t need you to cover my shift—Izzy already has a sleepover planned with Loni and Reese.”

“But you still need coverage,” she said, grinning wickedly. “Because you have a date. With Aaron. He’s taking you to dinner up in Callup and then to a party, seeing as neither of you are scheduled for Thursday morning.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked, getting a cold feeling deep in my stomach.

“You texted him while Izzy was taking her bath,” Jessica said. “You told him that Sherri suggested you get in touch. He asked you out. It was all very sweet—he really likes you and I think you really like him, too. At least, that’s the impression you gave with your text, you wicked little flirt.”

“I was impressed,” confirmed Sherri. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

I stared between them, wondering whether Painter could help me dispose of two bodies without leaving any evidence.

Probably.

“Give me my phone.”

Jess handed me one of the frosted pink monstrosities instead.

“Join the dark side, Melanie. We have cake.”

“I’m not going out with him—and fuck you, because that cake’s pink and I hate pink.”

“You don’t have to go on the date,” Sherri said quickly. “Of course, it will probably be awkward as hell to back out at this point. Really hurt his feelings, you know? He thinks you’re interested. And be fair, Mel. He’s cute.”

I stared at the cupcake, picturing the security guard. Aaron. Aaron Waits. He seemed like a nice enough guy, and Sherri was right—he really was cute. Not as big and tough as Painter, but not all clean-cut and shiny like that damned dentist, either.

“Don’t take this as a sign that what you did is okay . . .” I said finally, reaching for the cupcake.

“Of course not,” Jess said, trying hard not to gloat and failing miserably. “It’s that terrible impulse-control problem of mine, you know? So hard to overcome. I’ll totally talk to my therapist about it.”

“Don’t you dare pull that shit on me,” I said, biting down into the pink monstrosity. It was really good—there was just the right ratio of frosting to cake. I hated it when the frosting wasn’t thick enough. “You haven’t been to therapy for years, and you’re perfectly capable of controlling your impulses when you want to.”

It was true, and it would’ve sounded a whole lot better if I hadn’t sprayed crumbs along with my words.

“Ta-da!” Izzy shouted, running into the kitchen. She had on her newest princess dress, this one bright green, thank God. She looked like a blonde princess Merida from Brave, complete with the corkscrew curls. Seeing as Painter and I both had straight hair, I’d never quite figured that one out, but it was adorable.