Hands stuffed into my pockets, hood up, and head down, I made my way around the corner to the east side of the block and ducked into the deepest shadows near the garage door. And waited . . .

The waiting was awkward, because it was still early enough that the street was busy, even if it was dark out, and because the rain was falling steady as ever. I felt like a creeper. Probably because I looked like a creeper, no matter how nonchalant and unobtrusive I tried to be. But at least I wasn’t alone. There was a genuine homeless dude chilling in a trash bag poncho on the ground beyond the far side of the garage door. We were like a match set, he and I.

After a good long while, there was a beeping sound from within the garage, a mechanism clicked over, and the door slowly lifted. A dark sedan slowed on the road and waited for the door to open all the way. It wasn’t ideal—I’d have preferred someone leaving rather than someone coming home—but at least this got me in through the gate and off the street.

I waited until the car had pulled through all the way, gave the driver a few seconds to get deeper into the garage, then slunk in and crouched down between the nearest two cars. I waited there, hidden and silent, until I heard the car door, followed by the beep of a car alarm and the footsteps of the new arrival leaving their car. I waited a little longer, listening to the sound of a key fitting into a lock and the gentle whoosh of a door opening on well-oiled hinges. And then I waited a little longer, giving whoever it was some time to move on. Patience is a virtue, after all, even if it’s not usually one of mine.

After a ten count, I stood and walked along behind the bumpers of parked cars, not too slow and not too fast, like I owned the place. Like I belonged. I doubted any cameras could pick up on the bloodstains, and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by sneaking around and looking generally sketchy.

As I neared the door into the building, I pulled my lock-picking kit out of my pocket and readied the two little tools I would need. I had the door unlocked in less than thirty seconds and slipped into the building. I tossed a glance over my shoulder when the garage door triggered again and picked up the pace, heading for the metal door to the stairwell.

The second I shut the door to Garth’s unit, I was already toeing off my boots, even as I locked the deadbolt. I shrugged out of my leather coat and hung it on the back of a barstool, then unbuckled my sword harness and slung it over the coat. I unzipped my sweatshirt and pulled off my tank top, dropping both straight into the trash can beside the fridge, followed by my jeans, socks, underwear, and bra. I could never wear them again; they would always remind me of that sick fuck Carmichael, of my failure to end his pathetic existence. Even if I managed to get the clothes clean, the memory would remain a dark stain. Besides, the last thing I wanted was to leave traces of that bastard’s DNA in Garth’s washer. Someday soon, someone would get into Carmichael’s loft, and they’d find the bloody scene I’d left there. I wouldn’t risk implicating Garth in any of this.