Two dead bodies are concealed in my house. No, wait. Two and a half. It’s hard to keep track.

‘I get it,’ Thistle says. ‘You have a girlfriend.’

‘I don’t,’ I say, taken aback. A girlfriend would be an excellent excuse not to let Thistle in, and I’m flattered that she thinks this is possible. But I don’t want to be with anyone but her, and it’s hard to pretend I do.

‘It’s okay,’ Thistle says, but I can tell it’s not. ‘You don’t need to—’

‘I was just thinking about the mess. Come on in.’

I lead her up to the front door, my heart pounding. What am I doing? As I disengage the three locks, I wonder if I left any body parts lying around. I always clean up after myself—but what if I didn’t, this time?

‘Can you give me a second?’ I ask.

Thistle smirks. ‘Fine, go hide your porn. Be quick, though. I’m freezing my ass off out here.’

I think of the three frozen asses already in my kitchen, and slip inside. I switch on the lights and quickly scan each room. I’m looking for blood, bones, severed toes or fingers. There’s nothing. Even the smell Shawn referred to seems to be gone. My leftovers are back in the freezer.

But my heart is still racing when I open the door to let Thistle in.

She looks around my living room with undisguised curiosity. I can almost see her girlfriend theory evaporating. Tattered clothes, abandoned coffee mugs, decomposing furniture—my stuff is everywhere, and no one else’s is anywhere. No dining table, just a coffee table between the TV and the sofa. Thistle’s thinking, No woman would live here.

She walks right into my kitchen and starts opening cupboards.

I run in after her. ‘What are you doing?’

‘You got anything to drink here?’ she asks.

It’s the first sign that she might be as nervous to be alone with me as I am with her.

‘Vodka, maybe?’ She reaches for the freezer with the bodies in it.

I grab her hand before she can touch it.

‘You’re my guest,’ I say. ‘Just relax. I’ll get the drinks. How about Southern Comfort?’

‘Sounds good,’ she says, and walks back into the living room.

I let out a long, shaky breath, and grab a dusty, half-empty bottle my old roommate left behind under the sink.

‘I’d make you a cocktail,’ I babble, getting out the glasses, ‘but I don’t have any limes. That means no Alabama Slammers, no Scarlett O’Haras—’

‘Straight up is fine,’ Thistle says from the lounge room.

Out of her sight, I open the chest freezer. Biggs stares up at me through whitened irises as I grab some ice cubes and slam the lid. I wish I had something to cover him with.