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A spark of a memory returns, nothing more than a flash in the pan, of a man saying something garbled and blood-wet. It’s too distorted for me to understand.

Fuck.

I grasp the doorknob and turn, bracing myself for a bloodbath. But inside, the room is as serene as any bachelor pad can be: a low gray futon, one leg repaired with duct tape, an old cathode-ray TV hooked up to an N64, a messy kitchen littered with beer bottles.

I look back at Lacie, whose fists are up under her chin as she watches me, her face plasticky pale. Poor lamb. She doesn’t know what to do.

Good thing I do.

I give her a nod and close the door behind me. I might feel ill deep in my brain, might be missing memories, but I can feel that I’ve been inside this place before. It’s time to check the rooms, few as they may be. The apartment reeks of BO, but the desk is stacked with neat piles of paper. Lyle is—or was, as it might be—an organized man. A man all the same, however.

Poking my head into his room shows me rumpled sheets (a low thread count), the bathroom beyond serviceably clean though covered in tiny hairs from his razor.

One thing is missing, however, conspicuous in its absence: a body.

Humming, I let myself out the door again, taking pains to wipe the knob with my sleeve.

“Anything?” Lacie squeaks, her eyes still wide and panicked.

Shaking my head, I cross the hall pursued by the stony gazes of philosophers’ busts. “Nothing. Not even a bloodstain.”

“What if you killed him somewhere else?”

Annoyance flares in me. “Who says I killed him at all? Who says he’s even dead and not on an Adderall bender somewhere in the stacks?”

But I know I was in his apartment, hearing the garble of his words. I can’t kid myself. I have some hand in this.

That doesn’t mean anything. My mind isn’t reliable right now, I tell myself, I beg myself. I don’t want to endanger Lacie.

Clearing my throat, I slip past her and start to dress in my accustomed attire. “What I think we should do is forget this ever happened. Tomorrow, we get up and get on with our days. You have work to do for your faculty showcase, if you’re still interested in attracting attention that way.”

“I thought you wanted to compete with me for a spot?” Lacie crosses her arms, a playful smile crossing her lips. “Or is that something you say to all the women you charm into your bed?”

Smart-ass. I show her my teeth. “Let’s meet back here after I do some reconnaissance, okay?”

Lacie’s lips twist. “Alright … but only because I want to know what happened to Laurel and Therese.”

“That’s my girl.” I open my shoe closet and poke around. Then I frown. Surely they must be here.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t find my favorite heels. I was wearing them yesterday.” A chill settles on my skin. Sometime between when I left to get the journals from the Rare Book Room and when I came to on the floor of my apartment covered in blood, I must have lost them.

What if: it was Lyle’s blood. What if: I lost my shoes when I killed him. What if: someone finds his body—and my shoes. My name’s calligraphed on the inside, gilt in gold. Fuck.

Better not to let Lacie worry about that. She needs to focus, and I need to clean up my own messes. I’m nothing if not an enterprising draugr; I’m not afraid of a bit of hard work.

“That’s odd,” Lacie’s saying, her forehead knit, “do you think you lost them when—”

“Oh,” I cut in, affecting an airy laugh. “I forgot. I sent them for repair last week. Louboutins are precious to me. Did you know I spent my first paycheck on a fire-engine-red pair? Walked straight into Bergdorf Goodman and plucked them off the display. Left my other shoes next to the bench, walked out in new ones.” I’m talking too much, sounding like a liar, so I give Lacie a smile.

I realize with a panicked shiver that I really, deeply care what she thinks of me. I don’t want her to think I’m an out-of-control monster.

But that’s what you are, a little voice whispers inside of me. Murderous and angry and out of control.

Lacie’s squinting at me, brow furrowed behind her glasses. “Right,” she says slowly, nodding. “That makes sense. You just forgot.”

I pull on furry boots and brush my tweed pants with my fingers. “Seems like that’s happening lately. But I’m fine, of course. Just tired.”