The severed head of a murdered Staten Island woman was found amongst discarded soccer balls, bobbing in the water between two Brooklyn Bridge Park piers, less than five nautical miles from where the woman’s torso was found weeks ago. The deceased woman has been identified as twenty-eight-year-old Lelani Dimakis of Tompkinsville. Dimakis held a part-time bartending job at Jimmie Steiny’s Pub near the Richmond County Courthouse. She lived with her parents and was unmarried. The deceased’s ex-boyfriend, Dante Belsito, has been arrested on charges of murder and is being held by Staten Island police without bail. Belsito has a history of substance abuse and was diagnosed with issues involving “anger control” by a middle school psychologist. A 20-inch Craftsman chain saw was found in Belsito’s garage. No traces of the victim’s DNA were found on the chain saw, although traces of the victim’s blood and hair were found in the drain of Belsito’s shower. Dimakis and Belsito had been engaged. Their relationship ended more than two years ago when Dimakis began a new relationship with a local attorney and frequent Jimmie Steiny’s Pub patron. The victim’s family has postponed a funeral until Dimakis’s remaining body parts are found. The investigation is ongoing.

The image of a severed head bobbing in the water amongst lost soccer balls was delightfully disgusting. Wendy wished there was a picture. It was day-old news now, but she could not stop reading about it. Manfred, her former assistant, had a theory that the more mundane your life was, the more you craved the macabre. They were probably right.

Of course, she and Manfred no longer worked together. Wendy had been moved to another magazine.

Yesterday, just two weeks after turning in her excruciatingly dull and mostly plagiarized piece on Grasse and the history of the perfume industry in France, Wendy had received an email from her boss, Lucy Fleur, inviting her to dial into a conference call. Manfred had been on the call.

“A pregnant editor is going on bed rest downstairs and I offered you, Wendy, to replace her,” Lucy Fleur announced, forgoing any sort of greeting or small talk. So Lucy Fleur did exist after all. Her accent—from her upbringing in Rome, St. Kitts, and Senegal—was musical, lovely. A voice that launched a thousand ships, or at least one glossy, $23 bimonthly magazine comprised almost entirely of handbag and jewelry ads.

“I see. Thank you,” Wendy said, even though this was very definitely a demotion. “Which magazine did you say?”

“Enjoy!,” said Lucy Fleur musically. “Manfred will show you.”

“No problem,” Manfred agreed.

“And Manfred, you will take Wendy’s place at Fleurt.”