Page 10 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Edgar

I set the final dish on the table and take a step back, hands behind my back, shoulders squared.

Two plates, dark stoneware, minimal glaze.

Cloth napkins, properly folded. The roast rests beneath foil.

The wine is breathing. The coffee is poured into a thermos and decant cream into a tiny white pitcher she’ll never use.

The little things matter. Even to someone like her.

Especially to someone like her.

I’ve prepared family meals for grieving widows with less care than this.

Maybe it’s the chaos she carries like perfume. I knew what she was the moment I saw her. She arrives with sugar and violence, dressed like an avenging angel who traded her wings for box cutters and didn’t regret it. What I didn’t expect was the way she unraveled my caution just by existing.

There’s a hum under my skin tonight, like the moment before a scalpel meets flesh, sharp, precise, and already aching to cut deeper. Anticipation, yes. But also hunger. Not for the food. Not entirely.

I run through my checklist again. Incinerator preheated. Privacy lock engaged. Ventilation optimized. Bags for ash collection. Nothing she brings will be traceable when I’m done. No teeth. No fingerprints. No names.

Except hers. She’s the one thing I won’t erase.

The first time I saw her I knew she was made for me.

I pause. There’s a slip in thought. Rare enough that I register it.

That’s what she does. She interrupts. She leaves fingerprints. Not on my hands, but on my thoughts. In the space between one breath and the next.

I move to the back room. The cremation chamber is warm, clean, orderly. Stainless steel and sterile tile. Comforting, in its way. Obedience to process. The kind of control I understand. The kind I need.

She’s not like that. She’s the match thrown on dry paper. A woman-shaped catastrophe in lipstick and denim. She’ll ruin me if I let her.

I find myself smiling. If. Who am I kidding.

I smooth my gloves and adjust my cuffs. The scent of sandalwood clings to me. I wore it last time, and she noticed. Her pupils dilated. Her breath caught. I remember. I want her to notice again.

She smiles at me like she already knows where I’ll break. And I’ll let her because somewhere under that manic sparkle is a predator who knows I’m not afraid.

Tires crunch soft against gravel outside.

I press my palms against the counter and breathe deep. I’ve had decades to master composure. But she’s going to fuck it up. I know that already.

And I hope she does.

The sound of her engine cuts, and a beat later, her car door creaks open. I don’t move just yet. I like this moment, the breath between approach and arrival.

I open it.

She looks like Aphrodite crawled out of a murder scene and dared someone to call her crazy. “Edgar.”

I step outside, liking the sound of my name on her lips.

The scent hits me as I approach, putrefaction, sharp with the kind of decay you get from men who deserved to die slower, layered beneath the ghost of vanilla deodorant and fresh sweat.

“Jennifer.” I open the hatch.

She has not so much packed as stuffed them in. Industrial contractor bags, layers of tarp, and one unmistakable hand sticking out like it gave up halfway through the crawl to freedom. The smell hits harder. It’s not the worst I’ve dealt with, but it’s close.

“Jesus,” I say, peering in. “You’ve been busy.”

She shrugs. “There are a lot of dogs in this world.”

No doubt. “There’s seepage.”

“I triple-bagged.”

My god, she’s adorable. “Not disputing your work ethic,” I say, stepping back. “Just saying your SUV smells like a war crime. You’ll need a steam clean.”

“You volunteering?”

I am. “I’ve got the needed supplies. Even though you’ve tarped in here, we’ll want to make sure there’s nothing left. Dog stains aren’t always visible.”

“I’m aware.” Her eyes flick toward the building. “Everything ready?”

I nod. “Prepped and sterilized. Incinerator’s hot.”

She doesn’t move immediately. Just looks at me. Assessing. As if trying to decide whether I’m going to judge her for bringing decomposing men to my doorstep like it’s some fucked-up girl scout fundraiser.

I don’t. “Let me take the worst one first. Which of these charming gentlemen was the most... fragrant?”

“That one,” she says, pointing with her purse. “Steve. He marinated.”

“Noted.”

The bag sloshes. I lift it, weight shifting evenly. Her gaze lingers on my hands.

“I can do it,” she says.

“I know,” I reply. “Capable as you are, it’d be uncivilized to allow it.”

She doesn’t argue. Just follows me to the service door to the cremation room. When I open the chamber, she leans in to look.

“Damn,” she says. “Looks like hell with better tile.”

I load the first bag onto the tray.

She watches, arms crossed, a muscle jumping in her jaw. Not regret. Not guilt. Something else. “Does it bother you?” she asks softly.

“That you killed them?” I ask.

She nods.

“No,” I say, too easily. “But I’d like to know why you chose each one. Not because I doubt you. I just like… context.”

She’s quiet for a few seconds. “The one with the bunion told me I’d be prettier if I smiled before he attempted to fuck me in my kitchen. I made spaghetti that night. With real garlic bread, not the frozen shit.”

“Ah.”

“The one that sloshed cheated on his wife with six different women and had a gun under his car seat. He thought I owed him a blowjob in the theater because he paid for a matinee.”

“Reasonable.”

“And Steve… Steve had a God complex and a porn addiction and wanted to film me strip dancing.”

I glance at the cremator, the fire beginning to take. “Did you?”

“I don’t strip dance on a third date,” she says sweetly. “I buried him next to the compost.”

I smile.

“I knew it going in. That they were assholes. It’s why I picked them.” She meets my gaze, fearless. “You think I’m crazy?”

“No,” I say. “I think you’re interesting. Damaged, maybe. But not broken.”

That gives her pause.

I gesture toward the next bag. “Shall we?”

By the time the final bag is ash, the room smells like scorched rot and industrial cleaner. And I know why she does what she does. What I don’t know is who did it to her first. But there’s time for that. He’ll make his way to my chamber. Those ashes I’ll save.

Jennifer helps me mop. She just moves with me, silent, efficient, a little too comfortable dragging bloodwater toward the floor drain like she’s done it before.

“Do you do this for all your dates?” she asks.

“Only the ones who bring icing on the side still warm.”

She snorts and keeps mopping.

When the last drag of water spirals down the drain and the floor gleams like something newly baptized, I toss the mop aside and peel off my gloves.

Jennifer’s peeling hers off with her teeth. It shouldn’t be hot. It is. God help me, I want her to do that with my belt.

She glimpses up at me. There’s dirt on her cheekbone and a smear of something darker near her ear. Not blood, just sweat, maybe. But the image is still feral.

She looks radiant.

I reach into my coat pocket for a soft cloth. She freezes as I step close.

“You missed a spot,” I say, wiping gently at her skin. “There.”

She holds my gaze the whole time. “You’re such a freak,” she says.

“Only for you.”

And she smiles like that’s a perfectly normal thing to say. Like she understands exactly how dangerous this is between us.

“Dinner’s ready, by the way. If you’re hungry,” I say.

She glances at me sideways. “You really still want dinner after this?” She’s got ash on her collarbone. Maybe bone dust.

I want to kiss it.

“I do. I thought you might like something warm. And not screaming.”

She laughs. God help me, I love that sound. “Now?”

I shrug. “They’re not getting any deader.”

She gives me a look. Then grins. “I could eat.”

I lead her out, locking the door behind us and walk her to the room I’ve prepared.

The lights are low. I pour her a glass of wine while she washes her hands at the sink, humming something tuneless under her breath.

I plate the food: meat, roasted potatoes, green beans sautéed with garlic and a side of sauce for the meat. She stares at it like it’s magic.

We sit. She eats with real pleasure, licking sauce from her thumb like a woman who’s forgotten how to pretend. She’s smiling. Sated.

I have questions. But they’ll hold.

“I like you,” she says, out of nowhere.

“I know.”

She pauses, eyeing me. “You think you’ve got me figured out?”

“No,” I say, slicing into the roast. “But I think we both like our monsters tidy and our dinners hot. With sauce on the side where it belongs.”

She lifts her glass. “To sauce on the side.”

I clink mine against hers.

And we eat. We finish dinner like civilized people. Plates scraped clean, wine glasses empty, silence blooming between us not from discomfort but the kind of mutual understanding you usually only get after surviving something unspeakable together. Like a car crash. Or… body disposal.

Jennifer leans back in her chair, glass still in hand, watching me over the rim. “You’re a good cook,” she says finally. Something shifts behind her eyes. “I might need help of this nature again.”

“It’s a habit? Something serial?” I say.

“It is. There’s a need. In the world. And in me,” she says.

I want to pull my chair back, make room for her in my lap and assure her I’ll always be ready to burn the bodies. “It’s a small town. Perhaps you might consider strays from not so local shelters.”

“I am. Will. After the next. It’s already a whole thing with Derik… him.” She looks away.

“How do you pick them? Should I be afraid? Or does my cooking skills protect me?” I ask. I’m teasing of course.

She reads it. She’s clever.

“Your not going to suddenly turn into a neanderthal alpha asshole are you, Edgar?” She stands.

“I do prefer control and things just so.” I stand and walk out with her.

“I noticed,” she says as we make our way to her SUV.

The air hits like a slap, and I need it. She’s thrashing every rational neuron I have. If she looks down, she’ll see exactly what she did to me.

She opens her door and doesn’t get in.

The air wafting out is death-warm and humid with guilt. “We’ll clean this properly after your next visit.”

“You didn’t freak out when I brought you my mess,” she says. Not a question. “I liked the orchid.” She leans in, tilting her head up. “Can I kiss you?” she asks, voice low. Like asking may I light the match?

My throat works around the word. “Yes.”

She does it slow, no tongue, no rush, just possession dressed as restraint. A soft press of her mouth to mine. The pressure deepens, barely. Her hand brushes my cheek. Fingertips like a warning. Or a promise.

And just as I begin to lean in, to chase that taste, she pulls back. Only slightly. Just far enough to watch me want.

“I don’t do this on a third date,” she says, putting her hand on my chest. “Goodnight, Edgar.”

I stand frozen, heart hammering like she’s got a knife to my throat.

By the time the door clicks shut behind her, I’m breathless. Hard. And very aware that if we’d have kissed inside that would have ended differently.