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I had a feeling this was not what the Reverend Fullenwilder would be saying. I muttered something to that effect.

“I was never a Christian,” Eric said. Now, that didn’t surprise me. “But I can’t imagine a belief system that would tell you to sit still and get slaughtered.”

I blinked, wondering if that wasn’t exactly what Christianity taught. But I am no theologian or Bible scholar, and I would have to leave the judgment on my action to God, who was also no theologian.

Somehow I felt better, and I was in fact grateful to be alive.

“Thank you, Eric,” I said. I kissed him on the cheek. “Now you go clean up in the bathroom while I start in here.”

But he was not having any of that. God bless him, he helped me with great zeal. Since he could handle the most disgusting things with no apparent qualms, I was delighted to let him.

You don’t want to know how awful it was, or all the details. But we got Debbie together and bagged up, and Eric took her way out into the woods and buried her and concealed the grave, he swore, while I cleaned. I had to take down the curtains over the sink and soak them in the washing machine in cold water, and I stuck my coat in with them, though without much hope of its being wearable again. I pulled on rubber gloves and used bleach-soaked wipes to go over and over the chair and table and floor, and I sprayed the front of the cabinets with wood soap and wiped and wiped.

You just wouldn’t believe where specks of blood had landed.

I realized that attention to these tiny details was helping me keep my mind off of the main event, and that the longer I avoided looking at it squarely—the longer I let Eric’s practical words sink into my awareness—the better off I’d be. There was nothing I could undo. There was no way I could mend what I had done. I’d had a limited number of choices, and I had to live with the choice I’d made. My Gran had always told me that a woman—any woman worth her salt—could do whatever she had to. If you’d called Gran a liberated woman, she would have denied it vigorously, but she’d been the strongest woman I’d ever known, and if she believed I could complete this grisly task just because I had to, I would do it.

When I was through, the kitchen reeked of cleaning products, and to the naked eye it was literally spotless. I was sure a crime scene expert would be able to find trace evidence (a tip of the hat to the Learning Channel), but I didn’t intend that a crime scene expert would ever have reason to come into my kitchen.

She’d broken in the front door. It had never occurred to me to check it before I came in the back. So much for my career as a bodyguard. I wedged a chair under the doorknob to keep it blocked for the remainder of the night.

Eric, returned from his burial detail, seemed to be high on excitement, so I asked him to go scouting for Debbie’s car. She had a Mazda Miata, and she’d hidden it on a four-wheeler trail right across the parish road from the turnoff to my place. Eric had had the foresight to retain her keys, and he volunteered to drive her car somewhere else. I should have followed him, to bring him back to my house, but he insisted he could do the job by himself, and I was too exhausted to boss him around. I stood under a stream of water and scrubbed myself clean while he was gone. I was glad to be alone, and I washed myself over and over. When I was as clean as I could get on the outside, I pulled on a pink nylon nightgown and crawled in the bed. It was close to dawn, and I hoped Eric would be back soon. I had opened the closet and the hole for him, and put an extra pillow in it.

I heard him come in just as I was falling asleep, and he kissed me on the cheek. “All done,” he said, and I mumbled, “Thanks, baby.”

“Anything for you,” he said, his voice gentle. “Good night, my lover.”

It occurred to me that I was lethal for exes. I’d dusted Bill’s big love (and his mom); now I’d killed Alcide’s off-and-on-again sweetie. I knew hundreds of men. I’d never gone homicidal on