I pulled the knife out and shoved it into him over and over again. His face, his neck, his chest, his arms, his stomach. e human body is an endless soft canvas to enter and draw upon. I raised and lowered it until my arms were tired, nishing long after Calvin stopped breathing. I propped his lifeless eyes open so he could gaze up at me. He enjoyed looking at me when he was alive, so I’m sure he’d enjoy it in death too. His chest looked like a pit of tar. e headboard and walls were splattered with blood. I was soaked in Calvin. I climbed o his body and laid beside him for a few minutes, caressing his shredded face. Mr. Snuggles was a blood-soaked mess.
e drugs had timed out perfectly. He was lucid enough to know what was happening but quickly went into darkness not a moment later, Charon arriving right on time to ferry him across the River Styx. e handle of the knife was sticky and his white T-shirt was a fantastic canvas for the color show on display. Like a paper towel soaking up juice spilled by a child having far too much fun. is part was inevitable. Calvin’s own behavior made it so. One of us wasn’t going to leave here, and it wasn’t going to be me.
I needed to clean up, but the shock of what I had done was nally setting
in. I did what I did because I had to. I never had a choice. I brought the knife with me to the kitchen sink, running hot water and bleach over it again and again. It was like cleaning a llet knife after gutting a sh—the pieces of blood and viscera that had already dried clinging for dear life to the edge of the steel,
not wanting to disappear into the black hole at the center of the sink basin.
e process was long and tedious with lots of cleaners and chemicals and even more double- and triple-checking every detail. No ngerprints, no strands of hair, no threads of clothing. Nothing that is or ever was part of Grace Evans could remain in the ranch. But then again, did that really matter?
I tossed the empty hair dye box into a garbage bag beside the bathroom sink. My hair was swooped up into a bun, covered in brunette hair dye, my natural color. I looked at my bloodstained face in the mirror. Leaning closer toward my re ection, I pressed a nger to my eye and pulled out a blue contact from one and then the other—revealing my caramel-colored irises. Just as the timer on my phone went o , I undressed completely. Steam rose from the shower, and I let the water burn my skin. It felt good. e hot liquid turned pink as it removed Calvin from me, swirling down the drain. I rinsed the hair dye, careful to get all of it out.
After drying o and getting dressed, I did a once-over around the house and grabbed a canister of gasoline from the garage. Returning to Calvin’s room to
nish up, I threw several items on the bed beside him, things I needed to get rid of and things to help him burn. ere was so much blood, so I knew more kindling was required. I threw open his closet doors, expecting clothes, but it was nothing like that. Startled, I screamed and nearly fell backward. ree motion lights icked on, each one lighting up a mounted head. But they weren’t animals. eir faces were frozen in the fear they experienced just before their last moments. Small wooden plaques hung below them, each one with a name carved into it—Cristina, Kayla, Amber. I closed my eyes for a moment. You were sicker than I thought you were, Calvin. I shook my head, noticing two plaques hung on the wall beside the others. No mounts were above them, just a white wall, a blank canvas for his vile art. e names carved into them were Briana and Grace. I slammed the closet doors closed and turned back toward Calvin’s lifeless body.
“Liar, liar, pants on re,” I seethed as I doused him with gasoline, using up the entire canister. I wanted to make sure he burned. One ick of the match,
and he was up in ames.
Outside, I repacked my items, putting them in Calvin’s truck, and looked out at the woods, deciding whether or not I should check on the missing girl. Was she even alive? Was it worth the risk?
Sliding on a pair of Chanel sunglasses, I headed toward the apiary with my new knife in hand. e horses neighed and the ducks quacked as I passed them. e dry grass crunched under my tennis shoes. As I got closer, I could hear a low hum of buzzing from the bees. I entered the woods, pushing aside branches and stepping over fallen trees. Just as Calvin had said, a small wooden shed sat around forty yards back. In death, he had nally told the truth. e windows were boarded up and a large padlock was on the front door. I pulled a bobby pin from my hair and went to work on the lock.
“Hello,” a voice called from inside the shed.
I didn’t respond. e lock clicked, and I threw open the door. Light ooded the dark room, revealing the woman I had seen in the police photo. She had lost her vibrancy. Her skin was dull and dry and covered in dirt. Her greasy hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. A rope bound her wrists together. One of her legs was tied to a post, giving her about four feet of room to roam. Tears streamed down her face as she looked up at me.
Her face crumbled, and she seemed to laugh and cry at the same time. “Are
you Grace?” Her voice croaked.
I tilted my head. “Yeah. How did you know that?”
She let out a howl of a cry, a mix of relief and sadness. “Calvin told me about you. You were going to replace me just like I replaced the last girl.”
I glanced around the shed. A couple of empty cans of Coca-Cola and a bowl of rotten brussels sprouts sat near her. Calvin had been keeping her alive out here like she was one of his ranch animals. Of course, he was feeding her my brussels sprouts.
Her eyes darted all around me. “Where is he?” she panicked. “He’s dead.”
A relieved smile spread across her face, revealing the dimples I had noticed
in her photo.
“Please help me,” she said, holding up her bound wrists.
I hesitated for a moment. Holding out the knife, I nodded and walked toward the bound girl. Her bottom lip trembled, and she cried harder.
“Don’t worry, Bri. You’re safe now.”
