Chapter 48 Simon
Simon
He flicks on Frankie’s hall lights and looks down at the notional bride in his arms: her beautiful features, long lashes flickering, dreaming of who knows what, her lips slightly open, and her messy tumble of auburn curls.
She doesn’t really look anything like Melissa, but there is an aura there: the curls, maybe, or the easy way her lips rise into a smile.
He lowers his mouth to hers and places a delicate kiss there.
“Come on—let’s get you all cleaned up,” he whispers.
—
Up in the all-pink family bathroom, he lingeringly removes each article of her clothing with his silicone-gloved hands and places them carefully into his plastic bag before lowering her into the bath and running the shower attachment over her body.
He methodically washes all DNA evidence from her body—he knows the flash points he must scrub.
She groans as the water flickers from warm to too hot under the jet.
He adjusts the temperature dial and she settles.
Then her breath snags in her throat oddly, almost a word, but not quite.
It catches him off guard. But now she is still once more, only the sound of the shower water filling the room.
“Almost done, Frankie,” he reassures her, and himself, as he continues. “You’ve been such a good girl. I wish I could keep you forever, but I can’t.”
Once she is naked and clean, he shuts off the water and places the plug in the bath before turning on the cold-water tap.
He stands on the toilet cistern and reaches up to the small window high above them and opens it. Cold night air whips into the room.
When Simon climbs back down and leans in to check her, Frankie’s skin is already goose-bumping.
“Cold is one of the best ways to go—it can be euphoric, apparently,” he tells her. Frankie remains silent, beatific, her eyes quietly twitching away under the thin skin of her eyelids.
Her hair begins to buoy on the water’s surface as it rises around her, making her look like a mermaid.
“And drowning is supposed to be peaceful, quiet,” he mumbles as he takes a few shots of her body in the water. He lowers the camera and considers.
“Maybe we need underwear? It’ll look prettier,” he says, then disappears from the room. He searches her drawers and returns with a tangle of blush-pink lace and satin in his hands.
He shuts off the cold tap, the water now level with Frankie’s nose, her nostrils just above the water line.
Simon removes his jumper and T-shirt, then falls to his knees in front of the tub, dipping both arms into the water. He pulls the plug, then wrangles the delicate satin and lace of Frankie’s underwear onto her cold, wet body, his concentration intense.
Once on, he dries his arms on his folded T-shirt and redresses.
He showers her down once more, just in case he’s left a trace, then he refills the tub.
He readjusts her body, one arm now jutting out of the water onto the bath rim, almost coquettish, beckoning.
He takes a few more photos of her body, now draped in wet pink lace, her breasts just visible through the delicate pink filigree of her bra.
He can keep these, or post them online and delete the originals. Whatever he wants, but it’s good to have them, he thinks. There is a place for everything online.
—
The room is cold now, the wind ruffling the surface of the water nearest the window.
Simon takes in his work, places Frankie’s emptied pill bottle on the edge of the sink in plain sight, and gathers his things together.
He takes one last look at Frankie in the water, then turns away and exits the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind him.
The small turn-lock on the door clicks into the locked position, manipulated from the outside of the door. To all intents it looks as if Frankie locked herself in the bathroom.
Simon slips his screwdriver back into his pocket, grabs the plastic bag, and heads down the stairs. He turns off the hall lights, drops Frankie’s wiped-down keys onto the hall table, and heads out the front door, disappearing into the night.