Next door, Marina, Chris, and Eric’s top room blinds still glow at the edges. They are in, he assumes, but Eric doesn’t usually leave them until between three and four a.m.
Arabella and Will’s, Malcolm’s, Greg’s, and Lucy’s bedrooms still flicker with TV light. They are all still up, or have fallen asleep by the light of the screen, but pose no direct threat.
The Malones’ and the Harrisons’ houses are dark.
Simon hauls Frankie out of her seat and up to standing, or an approximation of it. He nudges her left arm over his shoulder and kicks the passenger door shut behind them.
They cross the street and reach the top of Frankie’s front steps, and Simon fumbles her house keys out of his pocket. They clank to the floor, and he bends to retrieve them. The weight of her is almost too much, the angle too extreme.
He shifts just in time to brace her against himself—for a second it almost looks like an embrace, a kiss, but the angle of Frankie’s head is slightly off. It doesn’t matter, not really, because no one is there to see it.
The key slides into the door like a knife into soft tummy flesh, Simon thinks. You have to cut a body up quickly or the flesh gets too hard. It takes so much longer, then.
He will not have to cut Frankie up, at least. But he will have to cut Anna up.
He hates this bit. Once is enough for it to stay with you.
It is so hard to cut through the bone, like slippery wood. The blade dulls too quickly, and once your blade is dull, everything takes more strength, more time, to finish.
And you vomit; when you cut up a body, you vomit.
It was a surprise, for Simon, when he didn’t throw up during anatomy in his medical training. But it was different when you’d killed them, he conceded. The smell, the catch of blade on hardening skin, the shudder of bone as the saw snaggles through it.
You have to factor in vomit breaks into the dissection time. It can be a DNA nightmare; everything has to be cleaned.
He is not looking forward to dealing with Anna.
He bends and hoists Frankie up over the threshold of her home, almost romantically, like a newlywed.
What a waste, he thinks. Frankie having to die. He will find another one though; there are so many out there.
He swings Frankie’s front door shut with his foot.
Chapter 48
Simon
He flicks on Frankie’s halllights and looks down at the notional bride in his arms: her beautiful features, long lashes flickering, dreaming of who knows what, her lips slightly open, and her messy tumble of auburn curls. She doesn’t really look anything like Melissa, but there is an aura there: the curls, maybe, or the easy way her lips rise into a smile.
He lowers his mouth to hers and places a delicate kiss there.
“Come on—let’s get you all cleaned up,” he whispers.
—
Up in the all-pink family bathroom, he lingeringly removes each article of her clothing with his silicone-gloved hands and places them carefully into his plastic bag before lowering her into the bath and running the shower attachment over her body.
He methodically washes all DNA evidence from her body—he knows the flash points he must scrub.
She groans as the water flickers from warm to too hot under the jet. He adjusts the temperature dial and she settles. Then her breath snags in her throat oddly, almost a word, but not quite. It catches him off guard. But now she is still once more, only the sound of the shower water filling the room.
“Almost done, Frankie,” he reassures her, and himself, as he continues. “You’ve been such a good girl. I wish I could keep you forever, but I can’t.”
Once she is naked and clean, he shuts off the water and places the plug in the bath before turning on the cold-water tap.
He stands on the toilet cistern and reaches up to the small window high above them and opens it. Cold night air whips into the room.
When Simon climbs back down and leans in to check her, Frankie’s skin is already goose-bumping.
