A box. Shallow. So shallow I stop, use a book as a ruler, and make sure that the depth will be enough. The base planks are strong, strong enough, especially since there shouldn’t be too much weight placed at any one point on them.

I take a break, return e-mails and eat—roasted pork, stuffing, and green beans, a new diet plan called Medifast. Yum. Then I tie my hair back, pull on gloves, and prepare for heavy lifting.

Dead weight is an appropriate term. I do as I’ve been taught. Lift with my legs, not with my back. Discover it’s easier to move the mattress box close to him rather than drag his heavy ass over. I thank God he isn’t Ralph. Ralph was over two hundred pounds. This guy is thin. Thin and short, with a lack of muscle tone that indicates he doesn’t have a gym membership. I lift him limb by limb, rolling one leg, then the other, my hands digging into his ass as I heft him over the edge and onto the wooden frame. He is stiff, rigor mortis beginning to kick in, the effect making him cumbersome, uncooperative. I fashion a lever, using a broom handle and a cardboard box of laundry detergent to help, the new synergy lifting him in a way my scrawny muscles couldn’t. His upper half is easier. I step into the box spring, grab both wrists and pull, the plastic wrap sticking to his back as I roll him into the hole, the pull of his lower half helping his movement. Then he is in, his body rolling into place, the stiff bend of his arms almost comical in their mannequin-ready form. I grab the hammer, nailing back into place the lateral beams and following their progress with the staple gun, floral fabric soon hiding every view of Marcus’s body.

An hour and fourteen minutes after parking the truck, the box spring is reassembled and, by all appearances, completely normal, should someone not try to pick it up. I turn it vertical, leaning it, with a heavy thud, against the wall. Then I clean up, tucking the ends of the bloodied plastic in and then roll it, bit over bit, until the black tarp is in one tight roll. I glance at my trash can, then back at the mattress. Fuck. I remove a few staples, enough to peel back the fabric a bit and slide the tarp inside. Then I restaple, cursing myself for the simple oversight. Ten minutes, a handful of used paper towels, and two bottles of bleach later, every surface he might have touched has been sanitized and wiped clean. I throw on a sweatshirt, pull the hood up, and prepare for whoever might be outside my door.

A box spring, on its side, furniture mover disks underneath, slides easily on threadbare carpet. I am almost surprised at the speedy path we make down the hall, beelining for the elevator, my head down, shoulder pushing, hands gripping the sides to keep it upright. I can’t feel the body, the framework of the box blocking his body from swinging and face-planting against the thin fabric of its walls. So Marcus and I slide down orange carpet until we come to the elevator I hate, the one I avoid on the rare occasions when I brave the outside world. I press the button and pray for an empty car.

Ding.

Empty. I send a thank-you up to the big guy, struggle with the slides and floor changes, terrified, for a brief moment, that the mattress won’t fit, that I’ll be stuck here, trying to pull it out, when the elevator moves, splintering the frame with one forceful decline, one that causes a bloodied body to pop out unannounced and get stuck between dinging-its-heart-out doors.

But I am fine. This elevator was built to haul sofas, appliances, and beds. The mattress fits easily, its descent uninterrupted, and I breathe a sigh of relief when we hit the ground level and the door opens.

Five minutes and one sweat-soaked T-shirt later, the mattress is flat in the bed of my rental truck, the tailgate up, wheels turning the vehicle away from Mulholland Oaks. I turn up the radio and head north with no earthly idea of where I am taking him.

CHAPTER 102

SHIVERS RACK JEREMY’S body, bringing him to life, lifting him from the dark hole that his mind has been in. He tries to lift his eyes, tries to open his lids, but they are weighed down, his vision blurred, his tongue too heavy in his mouth to create speech. Shivers. Uncontrollable, his abs cramping with the fight to control limbs, awareness becoming stronger as his mind crawls up the tunnel into life. Enough awareness to realize that his mind is not the only thing restrained. His limbs are also stuck, arms and legs unable to move. Straitjacket. That is his first thought. But that is wrong, too many things wrong for that to be possible, and any other thought disappears as he pitches forward, his stomach twisting, retching, wrestling itself as his mind awakens enough to panic. Vomit. It’s about to happen, that queasy upheaval of his organs fighting to push any and all stomach contents to the surface. He is about to vomit, unsure if his tongue will even cooperate enough to move out of the way. That detail is of small consequence to his sluggish brain, because his mouth is taped shut. He fights against the tape, trying to force his lips to move, sudden claustrophobia hitting as he struggles to take in enough air through his nose to live.