Page 9

Yep, that’s me. Concussed. No gun. Busted shoulder. Bum ankle. Some assassin I turned out to be.

Pazcuso’s main objective is to bring back the body of this science experiment. Mine is to stay alive. I’m not going to do anything but play the helpless, hapless damsel for a while.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, Manny’s kind of a big guy. Probably had the house char— changed. Changed to accommodate his height.” Lazarus lays out towels next to the tub, squints at me for a few seconds, and then asks, “Do you have glasses? Or contacts?”

“No. Perfect vision.” Kind of important for a sniper.

“Well... There’s a cordless phone somewhere upstairs, I think. I’ll put it on the sink next to you so if you need to call someone, you can, and you can get cleaned up. I’ll go to the store.” Another squinting stare. “You need help?” He vaguely pats at his chest and legs, then at me.

So much. But not getting undressed. Not letting a monster put his hands all over me. More than he already has, that is. “I’ll manage.”

“Good! Gotta go!”

But he’s back in thirty seconds, barging in without knocking while I’m still sitting in a stupor on the edge of the sink. “Clothes! Phone. Bye. Uh—don’t steal anything. Don’t drown. Don’t break anything. Are you sure I shouldn’t call 911?”

“Please go,” I hiss, closing my eyes. My temples are throbbing as my blood starts to circulate better and caffeine withdrawal sets in. If I don’t eat soon, it’ll be a cluster migraine.

I never had them before that fateful fall down the stairs.

“Bye!” he yells again, and doors slam in quick succession: bathroom, bedroom, then a door downstairs. Every thud sends a bolt of pain through my muscles and settles in my head, where blood starts to slam against my optic nerves and temples.

At this point, I might not mind if he tears my head off.

I SAVED A HUMAN. GOTTA save Thanksgiving dinner.

Want Manny and Rhea to look at me and tell me, “Good job, son.”

Why haven’t they called yet? Or texted?

I throw on one of Manny’s old Manny’s Automotive shirts, not bothering to button up the navy blue garment. “Herbs. Spices. Cranberries. Nuts for later.” I spread, throw, and powder, too rushed to measure.

That’s not what you’re supposed to do!

I glare, wishing I could make eye contact with the whiny inner voice in my head. I’m honestly not sure if it’s mine or someone else’s. Did it come with my left calf? My right hand? Is it me, or just part of me?

“It’ll all taste good. It’s Rhea’s recipe. All of her food is good!” I hiss back at myself—or part of myself.

I’m a horrible thing, made of dead things, created just to make more dead things. There’s no way I should have a whiny little do-gooder voice scolding me, right? That’s gotta belong to some tiny fragment of soul that Lazenby didn’t eradicate. A phantom limb, just more ethereal.

The squash goes in the oven with my stern admonition, “Cook fast!” and then I hop in the car, revving it up and peeling down the driveway, pretending I don’t notice the thin gray tire streaks I leave behind.

I’ll text Manny and Rhea.

You shouldn’t text and drive, asshole.

Why? What’s going to happen if I wreck? Even a steering wheel to the chest isn’t going to stop me. Might slow me down...

Other people on the road.

Friends. Neighbors.

Sure, not my friends and neighbors, but Manny and Rhea’s friends and neighbors.

I don’t like these uncomfortable thoughts, and yet they’re slightly less uncomfortable than the thoughts I’m having about the gorgeous woman I left behind.

Even bruised—and she did have bruises and scrapes; I saw them on her cheeks and hands—she was a pretty piece of flesh.

That’s all sex could ever be. About the flesh.