Love at First Kill

Ava couldn’t manage to get that fucking dress over her head, so she fell asleep with it still on, the dress holding her together. There was blood on her—some her own, some maybe belonging to Cale Jacobson’s hired muscle.

When she woke, it was overcast but still light out. Her whole body ached, especially her ribs, but she pushed herself up as the key clicked in the lock.

Jack reentered, a new car key in one hand and several paper Safeway bags in the other. He set the keys down on the table near the door, locked the door firmly behind him, and then set the groceries down, all without speaking to her.

There was a small refrigerator humming in the corner of the room, which Jack arranged groceries in meticulously. As meticulously as he shot the man who had hurt her. As meticulously as he poured gasoline on a truck and a body. As meticulously as he touched her.