Page 6 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Jennifer

I pace the kitchen like I’m going to find answers in the goddamn floorboards. I’ve already eaten three cookies. Might be four. I’m not counting. I’m stress-carbing while mentally cataloging potential threats and… dick. That’s where I’m at today. Welcome to the inside of my brain.

Did I just have another pseudo-date? With Blake?

I mean, technically he just gave me food. Not a date. Not an ambush. Just... neighborly generosity laced with enough bedroom eyes to melt my underwear.

Still not a date. Because if that was a date, then so was that whole thing with Carson, and no thank you. That man is a cop. I don’t need a badge knocking on my door for “friendly visits” while sniffing for rot in the crawlspace.

Blake, though…

God, Blake is so much. Built like a Home Depot dad fantasy and moves like sex in denim. And the man is packing. Hard to miss. I noticed a time or two. I thought about it later while my hand was very busy under the blanket.

I don’t care how nice he is, Blake screams “you’ll walk funny the next day.” And I want it. I shouldn’t, but I do.

But neighbors are messy. Neighbors see things. Hear things. Neighbors might notice the men who come to my house and... don’t come back out.

Does Blake know? He’s definitely watching. Subtly. Not creepily, more like he notices things. Has opinions. But he has to work. Eat. Shit. Shower. He can’t be watching that close. Right?

Unless he’s into it. Unless he wants to be next.

I take another bite of cookie and try not to picture Blake’s face between my thighs. Try and fail.

And Edgar, Jesus. That man reeks of the kind of secrets I need. The mortuary silence, the gloves, the calm like he’s already imagined me bent over a coffin and smiled about it.

Would he help me move a body? Quietly? Cremate something for me, “oops, my dog died” except it’s a 200-pound misogynist who thought choking me was cute.

I bet Edgar wouldn’t even blink. He’s probably already got tags for “Unknown John Doe #7.”

And I imagine he fucks like a eulogy. Slow. Intense. Like a man saying goodbye to your sanity.

And why is my mind circling back to Carson. I don’t even want Carson. I don’t like Carson. But the way he looked at me, like a question he’s dying to answer himself, it lingers. And he’s a cop, which means he will come back. With questions. Maybe with corpse-sniffing dogs. Maybe with a warrant.

I really need to find out if Edgar can do private pet cremations. And if I can pass Derik off as a Saint Bernard in a hoodie.

Three dates left. Three nights to confirm if Derik’s just a walking red flag or a legit predator. Then I decide if Derik walks into date two or straight into the crawlspace.

And if I make it through that without jumping Blake’s bones on the lawn like a feral cat in heat? I deserve another cookie.

I’m exhausted from pacing and hyped up on sugar by the time I hit the bed.

My legs ache. My stomach’s a mess of snickerdoodles and existential dread.

There’s a cookie crumb in my bra I can’t be bothered to fish out.

But my brain is still buzzing. Still crawling with all the things I don’t like to feel, rattled, exposed, off-balance.

I’ve been doing this a long time. Perfecting it for Walter.

And maybe I’ve been getting cocky. Lazy. Like I’ve got time.

I don’t.

It’s time to till the garden. Time to stop dragging my feet and finish Derik before I miss my shot. Before the whole thing spirals sideways and Walter gets to ride off into the sunset, smiling, untouched, leaving more women broken in his wake.

That can’t happen. I won’t let it.

Happily ever after is off the table. For men like that, there’s only one ending.

I fall asleep thinking about snickerdoodles, Blake’s tongue, and how long it takes to dissolve a body in lye. I don’t dream. I just plan.