The cooker is essentially an oversized version of a cast-iron pressure device—thus my revolting shorthand for it. Made of steel rather than iron, it is heated by a complicated system of pipes that siphon gas from the same household system that powers our lights. These pipes work together to heat the cooker well beyond normal boiling temperatures, necessitating the ring of asbestos that lines the cabinet—thirteen inches deep, on all sides—lest I inadvertently set fire to the place. This lining cradles an oversized metal basin. The basin is filled with lye.

Using the axe like a rake, I scraped the corpse to the basin’s edge and then lifted it, exhausting what felt like the last of my strength. I couldn’t just drop the thing into the corrosive bath, not unless I wanted to splash myself with its awful contents, so I lowered the body carefully into the thick, strong-smelling solution.

With a shudder, I released the crank hook and the lid ratcheted quickly shut. I fastened a set of locking bands into position, and then I worked a round dial just beneath the pressure gauge. I turned up the heat as far as it would go, and set the timer to keep it at full temperature for the next three hours—which would certainly be time enough to dissolve the creature down to viscous syrup.

Then, in the morning, I’d make sure. And once I was satisfied that there was nothing left, I would pull a lever and let the oily residue drain down a refuse pipe which emptied out under the lot behind our house.

As I said, this was not a cheap thing to have designed, produced, and installed in our cellar, though I don’t regret a single penny of the expense. I got the idea from one of Emma’s biology periodicals, wherein various authorities were discussing the best way to dispose of dead farm animals; and every day I half expect to see some sensational news story with my name on it because my bribery of the workers who brought the machine was not enough to keep them from talking.

Any day now, the authorities will knock and the headlines will declare I’ve been murdering again, and this time destroying the evidence.

•   •   •

I stood up straight and leaned back. I gazed tiredly at the cabinet door and kicked it shut. It fell with a thunderous clank that Emma heard, all the way upstairs on the first floor, where I’d left her.

“Lizzie?” she cried out.

“Everything’s all right. It’s done now,” I said with a sigh. Then I remembered and called, “Emma dear, I’m nearly finished.”

“Thank God,” she murmured. I barely heard it.

“I’m cleaning up, that’s all.”