Pulling the door open, Rick stepped outside onto the small patio. The cold air hit him in the face, causing him to shiver. He stood for a moment, scanning the yard and the fence line, then went back inside and shut the door but didn’t lock it.
Unlocked doors happened. People forget things sometimes, and Graham had been drinking wine. He’d been distracted, so it could work.
Rick returned to the dining room and faced the problem he’d been avoiding. Graham. He couldn’t leave the body in the utility room, but in reality the body needed to be somewhere that made sense. Somewhere visible, where someone would find it quickly. Or at least where it would match the story Rick was creating.
Rick walked back to the utility room door and put his gloved hand on the knob, then stopped and briefly closed his eyes. He didn’t want to touch Graham again. He didn’t want to feel the weight of Graham’s body as he moved him, but he knew he had to, so he opened the door.
The small room smelled different now, the blood tainting the air and turning it metallic. Rick stepped inside and crouched beside Graham. He stared at the man’s face, seeing the slack mouth and the blank eyes.
The part of Rick that still had a conscience whispered that this was wrong. He’d crossed a line he couldn’t uncross. Then another part of him answered. Graham had crossed lines too.
He’d taken Rick’s best years and sold them. He’d squeezed him for interviews and performances and appearances until Rick felt hollowed out. When the numbers dipped, Graham had thrown him away.
Rick’s chest tightened with anger again, but it didn’t burn the way it had before. What he’d done felt right.
Gripping Graham’s wrists, Rick dragged him out of the utility room, pulling him across the tiled floor, then the wooden one. Rick’s arms shook with the effort, and halfway to the living room, he had to stop and catch his breath.
He stood over Graham’s body and stared down at it. This was the point where a normal person would break. Where they’d scream or cry or maybe call someone and confess. Rick didn’t do that. Instead, he bent down and dragged Graham’s body again.
Rick dragged him into the living room, near the hallway, where the mess of a break-in might lead. He adjusted the body so one arm lay at an angle, his head turned to one side, and one leg bent. He didn’t want to pose him. He wanted it to look like Graham had fallen there.
Once he’d finished, Rick stepped back and studied the scene. It looked ugly and violent. It looked like whatever had happened had been quick, and that was what he wanted.
Looking around, Rick noticed his own tracks in the room where he’d walked, and where he’d stood. He went back to the dining room and looked at the chair and the table, and the spots he’d wiped. Then he glanced at the sink where he’d cleaned theknife. That was a problem because a random burglar wouldn’t wash a knife.
Rick walked to the kitchen and stared at the knife. He picked it up and stared at the blade, then at his own reflection in the metal. He needed to make it look like the attacker had brought a weapon, not used one from the kitchen. Or at least make it look like a struggle had happened, and the knife had been grabbed.
Exhaling slowly, Rick closed his eyes. He couldn’t undo the fact that he’d used a kitchen knife, but he could make it less neat and tidy. He knocked the towel into the sink and opened a cabinet door and left it open.
He walked into the hallway and looked at Graham’s phone sitting on the counter where he’d left it. If the story was about a break-in, a burglar might take a phone. Rick stared at it, then picked it up with his gloved hand. He could take it with him and toss it somewhere later, or damage it and leave it where it was.
He put it down again and stomped on the screen until it cracked, then kicked it across the room. Now it looked like it had been damaged in a fight.
Rick stood still and tried to think of the timeline. He’d arrived. They’d eaten and talked and argued, and then he’d left before the break-in happened.
Rick leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes. He pictured himself leaving with Graham alive and pouring another glass of wine, checking his phone, settling in for the night.
He pictured someone coming through the back door. A shadow and a struggle with Graham fighting and losing.
Rick opened his eyes again and stared at the living room. He rehearsed the words silently, so he knew what to say when the police arrived.
I had dinner with him. We talked. It was tense, but it ended fine. I left around… what time was it?
Rick pulled his phone out and tapped the screen. It lit up, and he stared at it for too long. Lowering the phone, Rick shook his head. He could pick a time and stick to it. He could say he left an hour ago or even two hours ago. Enough time for something else to happen.
Rick put his phone away and walked to the front door and opened it slightly, then shut it again. He should leave now, but there was one more part he had to get right.
Rick needed to look like he’d been here for dinner and not like he’d been in a fight, so he walked into the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror, seeing his smeared shirt and his messy hair. He glanced down at his hands and noticed the red marks on them.
Stripping his shirt off, Rick shoved it into a trash bag. He grabbed another shirt from the hallway coat closet and went to put it on, then paused. He couldn’t wear Graham’s clothes out of here. That was insane, so he pulled his shirt out of the trash bag and put it back on. He grabbed his own coat from the rack and put it on over his shirt, trying to hide the worst of it.
He washed his hands again, then scrubbed under his nails and checked his face. He looked better now. Not perfect, but better than before. He went back into the living room and stared at Graham one more time.
Rick dropped his gaze and stared at the floor, then slowly lifted his head like he couldn’t bear what he was seeing. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. He was both scared and excited, and that made him feel sick.
Rick whispered under his breath, testing the tone. “Graham…” His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Graham.” That sounded more natural. More like a man walking into something terrible.
Rick stared at the scene and imagined the call. Imagined the operator asking questions. Imagined the police, imagined—
