I follow him up the stairs. It smells different in here. Usually, there isn’t much of a scent one way or the other, maybe a hint of his cologne, maybe a trace of body odor if he’s been working out recently. Now the air is pungent with disinfectant.
“You’ve been cleaning.”
“I’ve wiped down every surface,” he says. “I don’t want your fingerprints anywhere. Vacuumed, too. Have to remove all trace of you.”
That’s a good boy, Christian.
“Well, I hope you don’t mind if I use your bathroom.”
“Go ahead,” he says. “I’ll wipe it down after you’re gone.”
Good that he’s taken this seriously. There can’t be any trace of me inside this apartment.
I step into the bathroom, a shrine to his vanity, with the matching set of titanium toothbrush, razor, nail clippers, nose-hair trimmer, and fucking dental-floss holder. I’m surprised the dirty-towel hamper in the corner isn’t plated in titanium, too.
When I come back out, he’s waiting right there for me, a nervous Nellie.
“Did you destroy your computer?” he asks.
“I broke it into several pieces and dumped each piece in a different spot.”
“Good. And you got rid of your burner phone?”
“Not yet,” I say. “I thought we might still need to talk. It’s only Friday.”
“No, I think we’re done talking,” he says. “Probably best we don’t see each other between now and Monday. Orafter, for that matter. Not for a while.”
I frown, like I’m greatly disturbed at the thought of our separation, like I don’t know what I’ll do with myself if I have to spend one moment without the man of my dreams. “Howlonga while?” I ask.
“Vicky, we—we have to be prepared for an investigation.” He puts his hands on my shoulders. Now he’s going to lecture me on what will happen post-murder, and I will have to look like I’m paying attention, like I’m not ten steps ahead of him.
“This is a rich lady in a rich town,” he says. “This will be a big deal. Unless Simon was incredibly smart about this—and we can’t count on it—they’re going to figure out she was having an affair with him. You have to be prepared for a search of your house.”
I am.
“You have to be prepared to be interviewed by the police.”
I’m not. Oh, God, that would be a disaster.
“You have to be prepared to look Simon in the eye and act surprised when he tells you that someone named Lauren Betancourt was just murdered in Grace Village.”
Jesus, he’s a bundle of nerves.
“If Simon has the slightest idea that you were behind this,” he says, “maybe he goes ahead and files for divorce. And then all of this will be for noth—”
“I can handle Simon,” I say. “I’ve been handling Simon for ten years.”
“Yeah, well, this will be the performance of a lifetime, babe.”
“You have the gun yet?”
“Not to mention— What?”
“Do you have the gun yet?” I repeat. “You said you were getting—”
“Yes, I have it.”
“What kind is it?”