Chapter 9
Chad paced the living room like he was supervising a very expensive renovation rather than a crime scene. He moved with purpose now—gesturing, directing, narrating. It was the same energy he brought to open houses and contract negotiations, except this time the asset was a body.
“Okay,” he said, gun in hand, voice pitched up into command mode. “Nobody panics. We’re doing this calmly.”
Nobody was calm. Panic had become the room’s new wallpaper. It was loud, ugly, and impossible to ignore.
Erica was on her hands and knees in front of the rug, scrubbing like she could erase the last ten minutes with enough elbow grease.
She’d grabbed the strongest cleaner under her sink, something citrus scented that promised to obliterate stains and sanitize souls, and poured it directly onto the blood.
She hadn’t thought about gloves or towels or anything except that the stain was spreading—and that meant she was losing.
The cleaner foamed and hissed but did absolutely nothing. The stain remained, dark and glossy, soaking deeper into the fibers like it was hungry.
“This isn’t coming out,” she said, not meaning to say it out loud.
“Scrub harder,” Chad snapped.
Her jaw tightened.
Of course the night hadn’t gone to plan. She’d planned for candles, a roast, dessert, forced laughter, a toast that landed, and maybe—if she was lucky—a moment when she didn’t feel her sister’s absence like a weight in her throat.
She didn’t plan for a dead medium on her rug. Or her boyfriend, soon to be ex, holding her dinner party guests at gunpoint like a hostage negotiator who’d skipped training.
She scrubbed anyway. The stain looked darker now, wider even, like it was spreading in slow motion while she watched. Sharp citrus layered over iron with something sweet-sour underneath. She pressed harder, nails digging into the fibers, dragging the rag back and forth. It didn’t help.
Chad edged closer and pointed the gun vaguely toward Derek and Zach, who were kneeling near Elias’s body with a roll of Saran Wrap stretched between them like they were trying to gift wrap a nightmare.
“Wrap him,” Chad said. “Tight. No loose ends.”
“We’re trying,” Derek said through clenched teeth.
The plastic clung to itself, folding and sticking in glossy layers. Zach tugged it free, but it snapped back and slapped his wrist.
“Jesus,” Zach hissed. “This is impossible.”
“You know what would really help?” Derek said, breathless. “If this wasn’t the cheapest cling wrap known to man.”
“It’s not cheap,” Erica muttered automatically, then hated herself for it. She sounded like she was defending her choices in a home-goods aisle while someone bled out nearby.
Zach leaned forward, trying to lift Elias’s shoulder. The body rolled slightly, but it was hefty and uncooperative.
“He’s too heavy,” Zach huffed.
“There’s no way we’re moving him,” Derek said. “We’re gonna need a forklift.”
“Just do it!” Chad yelled.
“Why don’t you help?” Derek shot back.
“I’m holding the gun.”
“That’s not helping,” Zach said.
“It’s keeping you idiots from running.” Chad swept the gun across them again.
Erica tracked it without meaning to—lamp, couch, Derek’s shoulder. Chad didn’t seem to notice where it landed. His finger looked wrong on the trigger. It was too straight and too tense, like he’d learned from watching movies. She hadn’t even known he owned a gun.
Erica shook her head and scrubbed again. The foam was gone now. The stain had turned almost black at the center, like the rug was bruising.
“You’re smearing it,” Beckie said.
Erica didn’t turn. “Then help.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I’m going to be sick.”
“You can’t be sick,” Chad snapped, like vomiting was a moral failure.
Liv made a gagging sound from the couch. She had her arms wrapped around her own stomach, face pinched and eyes watering.
“It’s starting to smell,” she said.
Derek froze. “What?”
Liv pointed weakly toward the body without looking. “I’m going to throw up.”
Chad lifted the gun toward her, as if aiming it could stop biology. “Bathroom. Go.”
Liv stood too fast. She swayed and slapped a hand over her mouth.
“Leave your phone,” Chad added.
She stared at him. “What?”
“Phone,” Chad repeated. “On the table.”
Liv fumbled in her pocket, pulled it out, and dropped it onto the coffee table. Then she scurried down the hall, hand still clamped over her mouth. The bathroom door slammed, and a second later, she heaved. Vomit splashed wet and violent against porcelain.
Zach winced. “Christ.”
Beckie pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I need another drink.”
“Absolutely not—” Chad started.
But Beckie was already gone, wobbling through the swinging door toward the dining room.
Erica scrubbed harder. Her thoughts kept skipping backward.
Six times, Beckie had said. The words replayed without sound, like subtitles flashing at the bottom of her vision.
She hadn’t reacted then. Not because she didn’t care, because there’d been no room for it.
Her mind had triaged, and betrayal had been deemed nonessential.
But now, on her knees, as she scrubbed like penance, it surfaced anyway. Chad. Beckie. The table set perfectly. The roast. The salad barely touched.
Joslyn would’ve laughed at her for thinking she could control any of this. You can’t plan your way out of being human, her sister would have said.
And then she thought of the warning.
Leave.
Maybe it hadn’t meant tonight. Maybe it had meant for good.
“I can’t lift him,” Zach said, voice strained.
“Try harder.” Chad’s jaw clenched, and the gun shifted in his hand.
Beckie returned clutching a bottle of wine like a flotation device. “Are we done yet?”
“Give me that.” Chad yanked it from her.
“What the hell?” Beckie recoiled.
“Go help Erica,” he ordered, flicking the gun toward her.
Beckie let out a dramatic huff and flopped down beside Erica, the rug shuddering. She grabbed a wad of paper towels and stared at the stain like it might bite.
“This is so fucking gross,” she said, dabbing uselessly.
Erica didn’t stop scrubbing.
“I’m sorry,” Beckie said, suddenly quieter. “You know how I get when I’m drunk. I lose control.”
Erica didn’t look at her. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Beckie kept talking anyway, because she had never met a boundary she respected. “I know this isn’t the right time, but I am sorry.”
Erica scrubbed until her arms shook.
Beckie leaned closer. “I think you should break up with Chad. He’s not a good guy.”
Erica let out a short, humorless laugh. “No shit.”
Behind them, the Saran Wrap snapped again.
“Why is it doing that?” Zach groaned.
“Because it’s too thin,” Derek said. “It’s meant to keep salad fresh, not substitute for Dexter’s kill room.”
Chad jabbed the gun toward them. “Less talking. More wrapping.”
“Do you hear yourself?” Derek snapped. “You sound like the foreman of Murder Inc.”
“I’m trying to keep us out of prison.”
“By committing more crimes?” Zach muttered.
“That’s how it works,” Chad said, like this was common knowledge. “No body. No crime.”
A scream tore through the hallway. Erica’s head snapped up, heart punching against her ribs.
“Liv?” Derek shouted, already rising.
Chad swung the gun toward the hall.