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“Besides, I’m bored and I really hate the smell of blood on tile.You have how many days left on this rental?”

He doesn’t respond.

I lean closer to what’s left of the man’s face.I can’t help but sigh.

Finally, Vance’s anger comes through.“I should kill you for this.”

“Relax,” I say.“If anyone’s leaving in a body bag, it’s you.”

25

Vance

She’s in the living room.Still barefoot.In the wheelchair.Wearing my shirt like she’s doing me a favor.Still watching me like she’s three moves ahead and just waiting for me to catch up.

That ends now.

“Up,” I say.

She stands.No eye-roll, no protest—just that infuriating expression of polite curiosity, like I’ve asked her to taste-test a soup I already ruined.

I lead her to the guest room.Not the one she started in—that one’s emotionally compromised.

This one hasn’t seen anything yet.

It's still under the illusion this is a bed-and-breakfast.

Lucky bastard.

I wheel the chair in behind her and tie her to the bed.Ankles first.Then wrists.

She doesn’t resist.Just watches the knots as though she’s grading my form.

“You’ll want to burn these restraints when you’re done,” she says.“Fibers trap protein.Blood’s mostly protein.”

I tug the last strap tighter than I need to.The sound it makes isn’t quite a protest—but close.

“Noted.”

I shut the door.Lock it.Wedge a chair under the knob.Old-school, but she’s earned the redundancy.

Finally, peace.

I head for the porch.

The blood’s had time to settle.It’s gone dull around the edges, oxidizing into something that won’t rinse easy.A halo, already etched into the flagstone like a goddamn crime scene mosaic.

I hose it down.Scrub with bleach.Again.Again.

It doesn’t come out.

Stone is porous.A truth I knew but ignored.What I need is acid or demolition.What I have is a garden hose, bad lighting, and a doormat that’s just big enough to lie.

So I lie.

I drag the planter over three inches.Shift the mat.Drench the entire porch so it looks evenly soaked.

Not perfect.