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“Yeah,” she murmured, unfazed. “Classic Richie.”

“Clothes. Now.”

Maggie slid off the bed with that same lazy, satisfied grace. She grabbed a towel, intentionally brushing her shoulder against mine on the way to the bathroom.

“Don’t miss me too much,” she teased over her shoulder, voice breathy and playful, like she didn’t just get fucked next to a corpse.

The shower turned on.

I stared at the dead man for a moment. His throat was a gaping second smile, flesh peeled back in a ragged, meaty wound. Blood had soaked everything; mattress, pillows. His eyes were glassy and wide, mouth frozen in a silent gurgle. The coppery stench was thick in the air.

I moved efficiently. From the closet I pulled spare sheets, towels, and a large black garment bag. Maggie reappeared a few minutes later, freshly showered but still flushed, dressed in dark jean shorts and a tight black top that clung to her curves. She didn’t flinch at the mess. Instead, she started helping without being told, wiping down surfaces, gathering bloody linens into a pile.

We worked together in silence at first, the only sounds were the wet slap of towels on blood and the rustle of plastic.

I rolled the body onto its side. Thick, congealing blood poured from the slashed throat in a sluggish waterfall, soaking my gloves. His head lolled at a grotesque angle, the cut so deep I could see the white flash of severed trachea and spine. Maggie grabbed his legs, lifting them while I shoved the upper body into the open garment bag. We folded him in, zipping it tight around the leaking corpse. The bag bulged obscenely with the weight of dead meat.

I hoisted the heavy garment bag over my shoulder. It was warm, still leaking slightly at the seams. Blood dripped down my back in slow, sticky trails as I carried him through the apartment. Maggie followed with the bundled bloody linens and anything else that could tie him here.

Outside, the night was quiet. I loaded the bag into the bed of the dead man’s truck like cargo, then tossed the linens in after it. Maggie climbed into the driver’s seat of my black van without a word. We drove.

The abandoned stretch of hillside road was a good forty minutes outside town, far enough that nobody comes out here unless they’re dumping something they don’t want found. No houses, no traffic.

I pulled the dead man’s truck off onto the dirt shoulder and killed the engine. Maggie stayed in my van, watching. I dragged the garment bag out, unzipped it, and hauled the stiffening body into the driver’s seat. I positioned him upright behind the wheel, one hand draped over it like he’d been steering right up until the end. His head lolled forward, throat still gaping open like a ragged grin. I wedged an empty liquor bottle between his thighs, letting it tip over so the cheap whiskey smell spilled across the seat and floor. Looked like some drunk asshole lost control and wrecked himself. Good enough.

I splashed the gas can over the interior, soaking the seats, the body, the carpets. The sharp fumes burned my nose. I stepped back, lit a rag, and tossed it through the open window.

The flames caught fast, roaring up with a whoosh that lit up the hillside for a second. I didn’t wait around to watch it burn. I walked back to my van, climbed in, and pulled Maggie close for a moment. Her hand found my thigh again, squeezing hard.

We drove away as the fire climbed higher behind us, orange light dancing in the rearview mirror. By morning, it’ll just be a charred wreck and a body too cooked to tell any real stories.

I dropped her off at her apartment building just before dawn, pulling up to the curb in the empty lot.

Maggie unbuckled slowly, then leaned across the console, and whispered against my ear. “Tell your little girlfriend I said hi, Richie.”

She lingered just long enough for the words to sink in, a sharp, mocking little smile playing on her lips.

I rolled my eyes and didn’t bother replying. She laughed softly under her breath, then slid out of the car. Her hips swayed as she walked toward the entrance, not looking back.

I watched her disappear inside before pulling away, already thinking about getting home to Samantha.

My sweet, naïve, trusting girlfriend.

And I intended to keep her completely unaware of the double life I led.

Chapter 11

Samantha

The farmer’s market was pure weekend magic.

Sunlight filtered through strings of fairy lights, the air thick with the scent of fresh strawberries, warm bread, and vegetables so vibrant they practically begged to be touched. I slipped my hand into Richard’s as we strolled between the stalls, my shoulder brushing his arm every few steps. A little over a month of dating, and I still got that fluttery feeling every time he looked at me like I was the only person in the crowd.

“Admit it,” I said, tilting my head up at him with a grin. “You’re secretly loving this. Under that fancy exterior, there’s a guy who gets a kick out of arguing over picking the ripest fruits.”

Richard gave me that half-smirk that always made my stomach flip. He looked ridiculously good in dark jeans and a crisp button-down, sleeves rolled up to show those sexy, veined forearms.

“Loving it? Samantha, this whole thing is like a goddamn hippie convention. It’s full of barefoot trust-fund kids selling tomatoes like they’re gold, and half the crowd smells like they bathed in patchouli. I’m only here because you dragged me, and I’m trying to be a good boyfriend.”