Page 72 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“Of course you were going to use your position to help one of your gross little friends.” I don’t know why I’m surprised at this point. Then I lean close to faux-whisper over the music. “Well, here’s a secret: I killed your drunk driver buddy because unlike you, I do care about justice.”

“Y-you… you…” His voice is faint, and his head lists to the side as he stares up at me with hazy, unfocused eyes.

“No mission creep,” Fi reminds me. “You’re almost done.”

“Right. Thanks.” I turn back to find my nearly catatonic ex slumped sideways as far as the zip ties will allow. “I thought part of me might regret this, but you know what?” I pause to let the song’s chorus kick in, then tell him, “Killing you actually is easy as one-two-three.”

Snip, snip, snip go the first three toes of his right foot, in perfect sync with the music. But it barely gets a reaction out of him.

“Aww, come on,” I cajole. “We’ve got another verse, you quitter.”

“Seriously, Greg,” Fi agrees over the speaker. “It’s as simple as Do-Re-Mi.”

When I repeat the synchronized snips on the remaining fingers of his right hand, Greg’s whole body convulses, then goes limp.

“Did he just…?” Fi asks.

“Not sure.” I slap his cheek, my hand landing wetly on the blood coating his face. “Hey. Greg.”

I grip his jaw and squeeze but get no reaction.

“Um. I think he’s dead.”

“That was faster than expected,” Felicity observes.

“Yeah,” I strip off my glove to turn his head and press my fingers to his neck, disappointment growing when there’s not a single flutter. “When we were together, he was on some pretty serious gear that he got from a guy at the gym.”

Fi makes a thoughtful noise. “Steroids would tax his heart, so between the shock and the blood loss…”

I grip my ex’s hair, lifting his head so I can peer into his eyes. There’s not a hint of the compelling man he used to be in that vacant stare.

“Such a shame,” I say with a sigh. “Hugo’s got at least three more Jackson 5 songs to get through before he’s done for the night.”

“Mountain bride,” Fi says with an exaggerated cough.

I won’t smile at that, not after what I’ve done tonight.

“Focus.” I say it more for me than for her as I slice my blade across Greg’s throat, cutting through to his voice box and guaranteeing he’s too dead to spew another syllable of his toxic bullshit. Then I take a step back and survey the disaster I’ve made of the formerly bright-white room. Puddles and whorls of blood spread across the floor, and fingers and toes in various sizes are scattered throughout like the chunky bits in crunchy peanut butter.

Hmm. I could go for a sandwich right now.

“Want to leave that until tomorrow?” Felicity asks.

“Nah. I’ll clean up and get him into the tank.”

“You have all the fun,” she says with a pout that I should’ve seen coming. The woman loves her water cremation tank so much I almost hate to deny her the pleasure of dropping Greg into the alkaline hydrolysis that’ll transform his body into white bone powder and a little bit of brown liquid.

“Yes,” I say flatly. “So much fun.” I survey the situation with my hands on my hips. “Do you mind if I stay over tonight? This’ll take a while.”

“Please do. Your room’s ready.”

“No,” I say quickly. “I’ll just crash on the cot.”

In her silence, I hear everything she’s not saying: I’m rigid and ridiculous. My rules make no sense. I’m hurting more than myself with this refusal.

“I’m tired, Fi,” I say wearily.

“Okay.” Her voice is quiet, and for a second, I think she’s going to let it go.