Chapter 33
Emmett sat limply at the edge of his mattress, a wrapped towel shrouding the indignity of his midsection.
Aaron’s expression stained his retinas like a glimpse of the sun.
He couldn’t stop seeing it, couldn’t stop reliving that horrible moment of change: from laughter to horror, from attraction to repulsion, from I might want to marry this man to the sudden apprehension of an aberrant and inhuman nature. A monster hiding in plain sight.
He was shocked, having assumed that Aaron had already guessed what lay hidden beneath his shapewear.
He ached with hurt and disappointment, no longer able to fool himself that this one was different.
Still, he couldn’t blame Aaron for wanting to run.
He only wished he could escape his body as easily—his greatest disappointment being that, for a brief few weeks, he’d thought he had.
He knuckled the snot off his upper lip, opening his eyes to the more urgent horror before him. Now what the fuck do I do? he thought, taking in the crime scene of his bedroom.
There wasn’t much he could do, not with Lizette here. She’d accosted him as soon as he came out of the bathroom. Like Aaron, she seemed to buy his story, but he mustn’t push his luck.
He waited until she went out, then worked quickly to stuff his soiled clothes and bed linens into a trash bag, fetch cleaning supplies from under the kitchen sink, and expunge the blood from the walls, fixtures, and fittings. He’d figure out what to do with the evidence later.
That word, evidence, turned his stomach.
But what about the carpets? A Rug Doctor could be rented from Vons, but it would need to wait until after work. As much as Emmett didn’t want to go, it seemed unwise to do anything too out of the ordinary. And anyway, he had promised Aaron he’d give his notice today.
He briefly wondered if it was worth it, if he even wanted to work with Aaron anymore after the way he’d behaved.
Maybe not. But nor could Emmett stomach backing out of the museum job. The part of him that hungered for love and approval wouldn’t let him ruin things with the only man who’d ever made him feel worth anything; he knew better than to bite the hand that fed him.
Emmett’s car, though not as bad as the bedroom, provided further evidence of a blood-soaked fugue.
Flies congregated around a few dark stains on the trunk, matching ones on the steering wheel, gear stick, and center console.
Thankfully, the upholstery wasn’t too bad, with just a few small smears on the driver’s seat that Emmett must have left himself.
One of the property managers passed by as he cleaned the back of the car with a rag and a bottle of disinfectant. The leathery woman stopped to stare, her eyes narrowed. Emmett masked his panic with a tremulous smile. No, nothing’s the matter. You haven’t seen anything odd.
“Two thirteen?” she called out, referencing his unit number. “Looking good.”
She nodded, impressed, and walked on.
Emmett ran into Rick shortly after clocking in. “Hey there. Little late, aren’t ya?” Rick said.
“Sorry—”
“Ah, never mind. Just a couple of minutes. Man, still losing weight, huh? You don’t have cancer or anything, do ya?” Rick laughed, miming a punch to Emmett’s shoulder.
Emmett stared. “Would you have a few minutes to chat today?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“It’d be better to talk in private.”
Rick’s smile stuttered. “Right. Okay. I have a few things I need to do, but how about I give you a shout when I have a minute?” Without waiting for an answer, he hurried off.
Several hours later Rick was apparently still tied up. Emmett grumbled, wanting to get it over with already, lighten the black cloud of uncertainty hanging over his head. One of them, at least.
As he retired to the break room for his fifteen minutes, Jazz and another associate conversed at the table.
The associate was younger, with discs in her ears, piercings, and witchy nails.
The women noticed Emmett come in, but otherwise neither acknowledged him.
Jazz had been weird with him lately. He sat as far from them as possible.
“Did you hear about that severed arm they found this morning?” Jazz was saying.
“Arm?” The pierced associate gaped. “No, where?”
“Few streets over. Apparently a coyote was walking down the street with it in its mouth.”
“Shut up!”
“Seriously, look.” Jazz pulled the article up on her phone and showed it to her. “Someone needs to do something about those friggin’ coyotes. They’re everywhere.”
“No, they’re cute!”
“Not these ones. I heard a pack of them killed a woman in a mobility scooter. One punctured her tires and two others dragged her out of her chair.”
“It was probably Cocktail Sauce Lady. I haven’t seen her in weeks.”
A hushed discomfort permeated the room; Emmett could sense Jazz glancing at him, measuring the risk of gossiping about him while he was right there. She leaned closer to the associate, dropping into a more secretive register.
Finally Emmett pushed back from the table and walked out.
He noticed Rick in his office as he passed and stopped in the doorway.
“Hey, Rick. Now a good time to chat?”
“Mm.” Rick swallowing down a bite of his Lean Cuisine. “Actually, I’m just—”
“This will just take a minute.”
Emmett entered, closing the door behind him.
“Sure. Come on in.”
Emmett pulled up a seat.
“You’re not quitting, are you?” Rick said with a feeble chortle.
Emmett pretended as if he hadn’t spoken.
“First, I just need to say,” Emmett began, “how much I’ve appreciated my time on this team, and especially the opportunity you gave me to step up as a leader. Unfortunately, I think the time has come—”
“You’re quitting.” It wasn’t a question this time. “Unbelievable. I guess you think you’re too good for us now that you’ve lost a little weight.”
Emmett was incredulous. Rick seemed to take the news as a personal insult. There was something insecure in his anger; the manager buttoned his jacket over his paunch.
“Just remember, we were here for you before you were Mr. Handsome. We gave you a job when you were just a big fat nobody.”
Anger flared through Emmett, like a gas leak catching a spark. He wanted to reach across the desk and throttle the man, tear his weak flabby body to pieces, scrape the meat off his bones with his teeth—
Jesus, Emmett thought, alarmed his mind had gone there.
He collected himself and pulled the folded envelope from his pocket. “My last day is the twenty-second—”
“Don’t bother. I’m cutting you loose after tonight.”
“What?”
“You’re a crap team leader anyway. Everyone’s scared of you. Rumors have been going around for weeks, and here I’ve been defending you.”
“Rumors, what rumors?”
Rick didn’t elaborate; he looked scared. “Get out. I don’t want to see you again, even as a customer. You’re banned.”
Emmett rose to his feet, fire billowing up his throat, his fists white-knuckled. “You’re not gonna tell me where to shop, you officious little fuck.”
Rick blanched, open-mouthed and shrunken behind his desk. He looked nearly as shocked as Emmett felt. Where had that come from? That sudden desire to strike, to hurt… to devour.
He stormed out of the store and traipsed across the parking lot to his car. He couldn’t finish his shift now, not after that.
The setting sun smeared the sky with gold and purple. The breeze sighed across the parking lot, putting a lazy rustle in the palms.
He slowed as he approached his Taurus at the back of the lot, his nose wrinkling. What was that smell? A foul, stomach-turning funk like shit and decay. Tossed around on the wind, it strengthened in waves the closer he got.
A skein of flies buzzed around the back of the car. More frantic and agitated than earlier, they pinged off the trunk like BBs, as if attempting to force their way inside. Hungry.
No. No. There was nothing in there. There couldn’t be.
He held his breath as he twisted the key in the lock, his heart crashing around his chest. The trunk popped open with a wheeze of rancid air. It forced Emmett’s hand over his face, preventing his ragged bellow of horror from filling the lot.
He turned away, retching. A body lay folded up in the trunk like a fleshy beach chair.
The cracked lips hung open. Dark eyes stared.
Where the left arm should have been was a weeping black circle of raw flesh and jutting scapula.
Buckets of blood soaked the upholstery so thickly it still hadn’t fully dried.
A divot in the side of the head matched the shape of the aluminum baseball bat glinting at the back of the trunk.
The bat Armando had been looking for—it had been here the whole time.
Part of Emmett had known it all day, but now the truth was staring him, literally, in the face: He had killed someone. I’m a murderer.
Then a realization: He recognized this man.
The gym bro who’d given him a hard time for forgetting to clean the chest press.
The same string tank top, torn down the front, revealing a muscled, tattooed physique pockmarked with festering flesh wounds like meaty potholes no larger than the circumference of Emmett’s bite.
He turned and retched again, as if his body were attempting to force out the memory of Emmett’s bloody face from that morning, the bits of meat, he now realized, he’d been pulling out of his teeth all day.
But how could he have found this man to kill him?
Emmett didn’t even know his name, only that he worked out at 24 Hour Fitness.
Was that where he’d gone after leaving Aaron’s apartment, the only place he was sure would be open?
Had he sought the man out or just happened to run into him, perhaps seen him leaving the gym and seized an opportunity?
Had Emmett done it right there in the parking lot, or had he followed the man home before attacking him with the bat?
A flash of memory intruded on Emmett’s thoughts: an apartment building tucked behind that little car wash place on Rosecrans Street, a sign reading THE PRESIDIO—NOW LEASING.
Then what? Something must have happened to separate the man’s arm from the rest of his body, and there was nothing here like a blade.
The word echoed through his mind in Hank’s voice, recalling a memory of the time Emmett bit him: monster.
Maybe the strange cravings and dark urges he’d been experiencing for days, writing them off as side effects of Obexity, were something else. A buried part of his nature at last beginning to show.
Maybe Hank had been right about him.
Emmett should go to the police. Turn himself in before he hurt anyone else. Surely there’d be security-camera footage from the gym parking lot or the apartment complex. He’d be in custody soon anyway.
But in so many ways, his life was finally starting to turn around. The new job. Aaron. His online following. Why did this have to happen now that he had so much to lose?
He slammed the trunk closed and collapsed against it, not knowing what to do.
Not truly caring. It was difficult to focus.
Underneath all the horror, disgust, and self-loathing, his stomach cooked in its own juices.
Saliva filled his mouth. His heart ached for the taste of succulent meat, setting a stream of intrusive thoughts running through his mind.
The guy’s already dead; it’s not like you’re going to hurt him.
Your life’s already over; what difference will another bite or two make?
Who knows where your next meal is coming from—or how hard it will be to catch?