•••
He peeled off his gloves jamming them into his pocket and shivered as he made his way further into the woods. Headlights spilled around the bend and he flashed them twice. Messengers. Gravel popped as the car slid by and the man in black leaned out and nodded. Temples pounding, he sat in the Cadillac, and started up the car, barreling down the road to classical music on the radio. Tears burned his eyes. In the heart of the city, he pushed his forehead to the rumbling steering wheel and sobbed. If the guys saw this, he would never show his face in blurry lights of LA again.
•••
Electric blue light filled the contours of the room and he slammed the door to the small but cozy house. Isabella sat curled on the sofa with her teddy bear and her eyes widened. A pack of cookies sat at the table and she jammed another in her mouth. Allen softened when he saw what she was watching. The Flinstones were timeless, always timeless. Nine years and the goofy show was still going strong. She flung her arms around him and grinned.
"Papa."
Allen reached to touch her hair but thought better of it. He didn't want to hug his little girl, he didn't want death to touch his little girl. He edged away and smiled at her instead.
"I need to take a shower. Where's mommy?"
"Mommy's in bed."
He smiled at her and thought of the clothes in his car. Taking a trip to the local incinerator was the next task on his mind where he'd burn it all. Evidence. His memories. He'd let them turn to flames and smoke like the dead bodies.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the dolls head which resembled his daughter. Black locks, large eyes, and fat cheeks. He pushed it into her hands dropping to his knees and she smiled up at him.
"Thank you hun."
"Did your good luck charm work daddy?"
"It worked well. Sweetie."
"I lost the body. Help me find it later."
When his daughter said stuff like that, he shuddered - that scared the hell out of him.
"We'll play scrabble later. Okay?"
Isabella nodded and sat on the sofa, her attention span already elsewhere. Kids, thought Allen as he trekked up the stairs running his fingers along the banister. His wives sleeping form rose and fell in the white bed and shifted when he opened the door. Entering the shower, he clicked the lock behind him turning on the cold water as the water blasted around his toes. He shut his eyes. Wife in bed. Kid at home. Body in the woods. You're the sickest bastard on this planet. He patted himself with the cheap towels his wife was obsessed with. Cheap towels felt like nails scratching the hair on his arms.
I'll get them better towels one day.
Soft ones like that fabric the wife always goes on about. Velvet. Yeah that's it. That ugly stuff.
What's that damn movie, Ava can't think stop thinking anyway? The hundred million years old but she still wants to be her. Cleopatra. Yes. The Queen. He scrubbed at his chest and grabbed the razor wetting it in the sink. He ran the razor over his angular jaw and slapped the cold musty cologne on his cheeks. Ava was picky and wanted him to smell like a cologne sample during the evening so she could feel like she was sleeping with a millionaire. Something was wrong with the woman. He stepped out of the bathroom. The towel felt scratchy against his neck. His wife sat up crushing out her cigarette. She looked at him and pushed the soppy romance book away on the table. He smiled at her.
