The pop of the cork filled the silence in the kitchen. Olivia had already taken her first sip by the time she noticed Garrick’s attempt to clink glasses, and by then it was awkward and too late. She remembered all the times she had felt the tiny bubbles burst against her lips. Weddings, christenings and lunches with friends. Birthday parties. Restaurant meals.

That last, unforgettable night.

Garrick was fiddling with some leaflets the previous owners had left in a drawer. “Shall we order takeout? Indian? Chinese?”

“Sure. Whatever. I’ll go and ask the children.”

As she walked toward the kitchen door, her phone, which she had left charging by the empty fridge, began to vibrate.

Garrick lowered the menu he had been scanning. A blush stained Olivia’s cheeks.

“You can—I mean—I don’t mind,” she said, gesturing toward the handset, its tiny blue light flashing a warning. A trickle of sweat in the hollow between her breasts.

Her husband took a step forward. Fidgeted. Stopped.

“Actually,” he said, “there’s no need for that.” He made a performance of turning over the menu, a study in nonchalance. “I trust you to keep your word.”

She smiled at him then, and the carousel in her stomach began to slow. In as casual a manner as she could muster, Olivia picked up her phone and slid it into her pocket.

In the shadows of the hallway, her eyes scanned the message. Then she deleted it.

5

Now

As each death has a taste of its own, each body reveals its peculiarities in the moment of dying.

The twitch of an eyelid; a gasp, as if surprised to be inhaling one’s final breath; the futile lifting of a hand to reach out and hold on to life.

I have learned that some slip away without a struggle, but for others, fear leaves its imprint in the stretched-open mouth, the eyes that do not close. That death itself is a burden, weighting down both the human shell and my soul.

And I have learned, at great cost, that I do not enjoy blood. That spatter is like flicking a loaded paintbrush against the walls and the floor, that scrubbing with a hard brush and soap does not remove the memory of what has gone before.

Did you ever bite the inside of your lip? Place a cut finger in your mouth and suck until the bleeding stopped? Swallow down the metallic heat of a nosebleed?

Blood is rust and old pennies, copper wire and iron. The same, but different.

Like fingerprints and irises.

Like killers.

None of us are identical.

Some prefer to strangle their victims, gifting a necklace of bruises. The split-open-skin-and-bleed-out method of slashers. Stalkers with blunt-headed hammers. Wronged husbands and wives. Opportunistic killers who act in the heat of the moment.

And there is me.

I detest mess. The savagery of murder. I have witnessed it twice and I do not wish to witness it again. I crave order. Control. Social niceties. I watch, I plan and prepare.