Page 135

She could’ve been tipsy.

She could’ve stood too fast.

She could’ve fallen.

That’s what they’ll say.

Her head hits the tile with a dull, unspectacular thud.Blood fans out like spilled dye.

I don’t stay.

I don’t panic.

I wash my hands in her sink.Wipe things down.Put the gloves back on.

Then I leave through the stairwell, just like I came in.

No camera catches me.

No neighbor sees a thing.

She dies how she lived—loud in the beginning, quiet at the end.

By morning, they’ll find her.

And they’ll call it what it looks like.

An accident.

But I’ll know better.

And I know it would have made him smile.

67

Marlowe

What starts as one thing often becomes another.The man at the bar stirs his drink with the same hand he used on her throat.

I wonder if it shakes when no one’s watching.I sit four tables back, nursing something herbal and harmless.I don’t look at him.I watch his reflection in the mirror above the bar.

He leaves a ten-dollar tip.Smiles at the waitress like he didn’t once put a girl in the hospital for talking too loud in court.

When he stands, I follow.

Not right away.Not close.Just enough.

People think it takes rage.It doesn’t.

It takes rhythm.

You wake up.You read the names.You memorize the walk.The car.The habit.The soft underbelly they think no one can reach.

Then you wait for the moment they forget they’re being watched.

And you take it.

He pays the check in cash, tucks his phone into his back pocket.When he leaves, I give it two minutes.Long enough to look casual.