The guilt follows me, as I open the gate, hop into the truck, start it up, and leave, closing and locking the gate behind me. I was never seen so I was never there. One dead body less, I drive back to the city, the weight of my actions heavy on my shoulders. It was so much easier before. I felt lighter last time. Freer. This time I feel the lift of my killing impulses, but the weight of a different pressure. Guilt. In many ways, a heavier weight. One that I cannot discuss with Dr. Derek. One that I must deal with on my own. I hope he didn’t have a family. I hope he really was a monster.

I am wired, my after-kill nap reviving me, the jittery realization of what I’ve done keeping me awake. I return home, park the truck, and thumb my still-gloved hands through the key ring that I had found in the man’s pocket. Keys and a roll of fresh dollar bills, almost a thousand bucks folded neatly and stuffed into jeans that looked brand new and ironed. The key ring holds a Mercedes key, the lock and unlock buttons part of its design, seven or eight house keys, and something that appears to be a mailbox or locker key. No tags to a gym, discount cards, the last item on the ring being a small fob of some sort. I need to deal with his vehicle. It can’t sit wherever he parked it. It’s like a beacon, a giant “look here for your missing person” sign, especially a Mercedes. I walk to the window, crane my neck until I see it, an S-Class almost out of eyeshot, sitting in a metered spot at the curb. I drum my fingers on the glass and think. Chances are, in this area, it will be, at some point in time, stolen—I could leave the keys on the front seat and wait—but I can’t risk that. With my luck a Good Samaritan will do the right thing and call the cops. Better to move it now. Better to cover my tracks and leave bread crumbs at the same time. Something for the man’s wife and kids to stew over for the next two decades. God, I’m a bitch.

I leave the sweatshirt on, grateful for the cold temperatures that will aid in my disguise. Its hood up, gloves on, the baggy sweatshirt that hides my figure—none of it will be looked at twice. The streets outside my window are empty, most people huddled inside. Few to report or notice anything other than the ache of their joints or the freeze of their toes. I exit the apartment, heading down the stairwell, working through the plan, examining it for flaws, then pause on the third-floor landing. Decide I need more, a prop. I jog up the stairs, my calves aching, my breath running out before I reach the top. I am a weakling. My daily crunches and exercises, designed for cellulite reduction, don’t cut it in the “getting rid of dead bodies” role. I huff my way inside and drag my duffel bag out, the insignia-covered tote that used to be a staple of my normal life. Soccer balls shared space with headphones, windbreakers, tennis shoes. Trendy outfits were stuffed alongside heels and makeup bags, DVD cases and face wash. Now, in my new life inside this apartment? It has collected dust. Some paperbacks stuffed in at one point just to clear up some floor space for cardboard box storage, TV dinners or toilet paper. I dump the books out and stuff in some clothes and shoes, a few more items that take up space. I toss in a makeup bag and grab a scarf. Something to wrap around my neck and hide the lower half of my face. I put on a pair of nonprescription glasses, the ones I use on camera when I want to be a disobedient secretary or a straitlaced professor. Or a landing zone for a guy with a cum-on-your-glasses fetish.

I move to the safe and grab cash. A thousand bucks in twenties. Paired with Marcus’s money, it’s more than enough to cover my needs with some extra for a bribe, should one pop up its head and need to be courted.

Then I use my intelligence. Pile my hair on my head. Wrap it in Saran Wrap like I once saw on a Lifetime movie. Pull a wool hat over it, return my hoodie to the upright position, and step outside, locking my door, the scent of bleach still strong, the duffel bag tossed over a shoulder. In my pocket, my phone rings. I ignore it and step for the elevator. Skip the stairwell entrance and listen to the ache in my legs, the weight of my bag. Swallow my I’m-a-badass pride and get on the elevator.

The key fob works, my guess at his car confirmed, one block down. I move quickly, tossing my bag into the passenger side and moving the seat forward, mentally reminding myself to put it back once finished. Then I drive, keeping the radio where it is, on a sports station, the discussion unfamiliar, my brain listening for a good stretch before I reach out, stab the button with a gloved finger, having had enough of statistics and football chatter to last me this trip. I take the highway, travel a hundred miles west, then exit and follow the signs for the Oklahoma City airport. Pull into long-term parking, pocket the ticket, move the seat back, and grab my bag. Lock the car, keep the keys, and walk into the airport, bag in hand, head down. No one looks, no one cares. I use the restroom, buy a Happy Meal, spend ten minutes reading in a worn seat by the baggage claim, then swing by an automatic trash can. Toss the keys in with my trash and walk out. Get in the first taxi in line.