Page 19 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Jennifer

It’s been a few hours since Blake left, and I’ve already scrubbed the counter twice, rearranged the spice rack by emotional trauma level, and eaten half a tray of cookies I don’t remember baking.

I called Carson and postponed the SUV scrubbing until tonight.

Because obviously I can’t bleach bloodstains when I’m emotionally raw and freshly sexed. That’s just poor time management.

I need to think.

What the actual fuck am I doing?

Blake is… he’s sweet. And hot. And filthy in the way that makes my spine curl like an overwatered fern. He’s gentle, but not fragile. Strong, but not performative. The man brought me chocolate milk, helped me move bodies, and then rearranged my internal organs. And now I want to vomit.

“Too much,” I say, pacing in my kitchen like it’s a panic runway. “He’s too much. Too safe. Too decent. He has… zero red flags. Do you understand how suspicious that is?”

I hurl the dish towel onto the counter like it’s the problem.

“He says “thank you” when I pass him things. He makes eye contact. He touches me like I’m sacred and slutty at the same time and I, Oh god.

He’s going to get hurt,” I snap at the fridge, which has done nothing wrong except exist while I emotionally unravel.

“He’s going to get all invested and loyal and then what?

What do I do when he finds out I turn men into mulch? ”

Walter’s picture, the one I taped to the compost bin for psychological catharsis, stares up at me like he knows. It’s that smug, haunted-ass smirk, like he’s still pulling the strings.

“And that’s your fault!” I scream at the bin like an unhinged Disney villain. “You! With your gaslighting, your rules, your fucking spreadsheets for how long I was allowed to cry!”

I devour another cookie like it just said “calm down.”

“I’m trying, okay?” I shout. “I killed the bad ones! I fed them to the tomatoes! I’m doing the work! And still, the world keeps spitting out bastards like a vending machine from hell!” I kick the bin. Not enough to hurt it. Just enough to make a point.

No matter how many of these useless, rage-stuffed, manipulative bastards I take out, four more show up like some kind of violent, misogynist hydra. It’s like I’m playing Whack-a-Misogynist in Beelzebub's arcade.

And Walter, the final boss of my trauma dungeon, is still out there somewhere. Probably sipping a green juice and creating more little bastard men like it’s a hobby.

“Maybe he’s got a lab,” I say, grabbing a spoon and jabbing it into the peanut butter like I’m executing a plan. “Clones. A whole fuckboy production line. Bastard birds hatching from eggs made of Axe body spray and fragile egos.”

I pause, stare into the distance, and then eat the peanut butter directly from the spoon while my brain tap dances through every possible scenario in which I don’t ruin Blake with my garbage fire heart and bloodstained baggage.

“It’s Walter. He’s the answer.” I say it out loud, like I’m solving the world’s shittiest riddle. “I bet he’d love that.” I laugh a little too sharp. It echoes off the walls like it’s trying to get away from me.

Alright. Enough. It’s time to get my sparkly, semi-feral shit together, because I have a dinner date with a mortician who feeds me like a death-obsessed god, something disturbingly magnetic with a homicide detective who may or may not have deleted a federal file for me, and Blake invited me to the goddamn county fair.

The fair. With ferris wheels and funnel cake and Cookie’s flock of Stepford Judgment Barbies who will sniff out my trauma like bloodhounds in rhinestone aprons.

“I can’t face that bitch Cookie and her powdered sugar cult and bake lemon cupcakes worthy of a blue ribbon with this hanging over me, can I?” I glare at the burner phone like it stole my last fry.

This is what it’s for, right? This little plastic bastard. The one Carson gave me. The one you use for one thing, bad decisions that can’t be traced.

I pick it up and dial. My fingers already know the number. I’ve tracked him since our divorce. Walter shares way too much on LinkedIn, like a narcissistic peacock in a business-casual vest. Self-important, always selling himself. Needs clients. Can’t afford to hide.

The line clicks. “Lane Consulting, how can I help you?” That voice. That fucking voice.

I freeze. I am not the woman who lured and neutralized two dozen walking red flags with nothing but a pie and a smile. I am not the calm strategist, the master of curated death.

I am Mrs. Lane. The woman he built from scratch like a goddamn Frankenstein Barbie. His. Perfect. Property.

“There’s an issue I need your help with.” The words come out like barbed wire dipped in maple syrup.

“Ma’am, what is this in regard to?” he says, bland and businesslike.

He doesn’t even recognize my voice. The one he silenced. The one he choked.

“Do you do private consults, Mr. Lane?” It comes out smooth this time. Like I’m asking if he has time to die next Tuesday.

He does. Of course he does.

“I do.”

“I’d like to meet. Off the books. I’ll pay in cash.”

And oh, baby, does he bite. It’s always ego with men like Walter. Ego and the illusion of control.

I give him the location. Deep into a hiking trail that doesn’t see many hikers. Plenty of wildlife. Great soil conditions.

Then I hang up. And breathe.

And while I wait, I plan how to manage my accidental three-way entanglement of unexpectedly spectacular men: Blake with his earnest smile and unholy stamina, Carson with his smoldering glower and unethical file deletion, and Edgar, who brings me pastries and bone saws like I’m the lead in some kind of erotic gothic bake-off.

If I want to build a future where I can take care of Blake, meet Carson halfway across our shared moral abyss, and give Edgar the same loyalty he already offers me in saws and ashes, then Walter needs to be purged.

For good. With flair.

I change into “hiking gear,” which is a generous term for long pants that make my thighs angry and boots that scream seasonal lumberjack cosplay. I’m not aiming for rugged. I just don’t want ticks. Or to die winded.

The drive is nice. Calming, even. Just me, the open road, and the distant fantasy of blunt force trauma.

It’s a fair way outside city limits, which is ideal.

Not much chance anyone will hear him scream.

Unless, of course, it’s the one goddamn day a troop of junior eco-warriors decides to earn their badge in “Foraging and Rustic Toymaking.” I’m not trying to traumatize Timmy while he’s carving a gnome out of driftwood.

I park in the designated lot, because for today’s visit I’m a law-abiding hiker with a pink water bottle and murder in my heart.

The path is narrow and mostly uphill, which sucks because let’s be honest, my legs were designed for wrapping around Blake’s shoulders, not hauling my emotionally overcooked ass up inclines like I’m auditioning for Survivor: Trauma Edition.

By the time I reach the trail marker I’d suggested, I’m sweating like a sinner at Sunday brunch and seriously questioning my cardio choices. I plop onto a flat rock and inhale the snack cake from Carson’s latest care package like it’s communion.

I could get used to this kind of attention.

Thoughtful, quiet, nutritionally-questionable affection.

I lick chocolate off my thumb and wonder: what would Carson like in a gift bag?

I know he liked the Zebra Cake, but what really screams “sexy, morally compromised lawman?” Beef jerky and a scented candle that smells like gasoline?

Something scuttles in the underbrush. I freeze.

It’s not a helpful animal sidekick. No woodland creatures appear wielding tiny murder tools and singing ominous but adorable harmonies. Disney lied to me. Again.

And then, of course, he emerges from between two trees like a cursed fairytale cop. Shadowed. Brooding. Backlit like he’s been personally styled by the concept of temptation.

“Jennifer,” Carson says, voice grave like he’s returned from a morally ambiguous pilgrimage.

“You following me?” I ask, already half-suspicious he’s been tracking me like a wolf with a badge and excellent biceps.

“You sounded upset.” He says it like that. Simple. No drama. A statement of fact.

“I was. Am.” I tear off half my snack cake and offer it up like a peace treaty. “Want some processed sugar-based emotional avoidance?”

He takes it. “I see,” he says, chewing.

“I slept with Blake,” I announce. Because apparently my mouth is a confession booth now.

“Was he unkind?”

The way he says it makes my ribcage feel like it’s trying to shrink away from itself.

“God, no. He’s perfect.” I sigh so hard it almost knocks me over. “Sweet. Filthy. He helped me dig holes and he meant it.”

Carson nods like I told him Blake helped me move a couch, not haul human remains.

“If I wanted to get a body from here to the parking area,” I ask casually, licking icing off my pinky, “how would I do that?”

He sighs. The kind of sigh you make when you realize you’re both the problem and the solution. “What are you doing?”

“Walter,” I say, and that’s all it takes.

His jaw tightens. “Jesus. Okay. You tell me when, and I’m here.”

“Just like that?” I was expecting a lecture. Or at least a frown of moral disapproval.

“Absolutely.” He doesn’t even hesitate. Like this is Tuesday and I asked for help moving a piano. A corpse piano. “How are you planning to kill him?” he asks, with a level of calm that should be concerning. But for me, it’s foreplay.

“I haven’t gotten that far.” I glance around the woods like they’ll give me inspiration. “I mean, it’s isolated. I could kill him with a marching band, and no one would hear.”

He arches an eyebrow.

“I’m just saying, if I wanted to murder him with, like, a cymbal crash or choreographed jazz hands, this would be the place.”

“I’ll make sure the band gets permits,” he says.

I feel a little more grounded. A little more ready. Because I may be spiraling, but at least I’m spiraling with snacks, sarcasm, and accomplices who bring their own evidence bags.