that shirt?”
“Let’s find out.” I pulled the Hemastix out of the plastic store sack I had been carrying. I also pulled out a bottle of water. The instructions on the internet said to use sterile water. I don’t know if reverse osmosis counts as sterilization, but I figured it was close enough. I wasn’t going to send it off for DNA testing; I just wanted to verify that the shirt was blood-soaked.
It was. Malcolm didn’t say anything until after I had finished my test—dipping a Q-tip (also presumably not sterile, but so what?) into the bottle of water, rubbing it across the bloodstain, then rubbing it across the small strip from the Hemastix bottle.
I peered at the strip. It was a sickly shade of green. Yep. Blood.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Malcolm asked.
“Television. And the internet.”
“So you’re sure it’s blood?”
“I was sure before I did the test.” I sat down on the couch, holding the Hemastix test and staring at it despondently.
“You know,” Malcolm said, “this is beginning to feel a lot more serious than it did a few days ago.”
“No kidding.”
“I mean, it was one thing when we were sneaking around offices because your ex-boyfriend was a stalker or something. But I didn’t ever really expect to find anything.”
“Really? Because I did.” Okay, then. This was my opening. If Malcolm was going to live, I needed either to tell him everything or to find a way to make him go away.
I didn’t really want to do either of those things.
But I knew I had to. So I took a deep breath. “You’re right, Malcolm. This is a lot more serious than even I expected. I’m going to call the police.”
“What are you going to tell them? That we broke into your ex’s law office? They’ll arrest us.”
“Nope. They’re not going to do anything to us. They’re not going to know that an ‘us’ even exists. I’m going to tell them that I was unpacking a box from my old apartment and found a bunch of old papers that belonged to my ex-boyfriend, along with a bloody t-shirt. I’m not going to bring you into it at all.”
“Are you sure? I mean, you could say that I was with you when you found the stuff—” his voice trailed off. “No. I guess not. Okay.”
“So I think maybe you’d better go so I can do that. Okay?” I didn’t look up at him.
“Okay.” He whispered, and I realized he was standing just above me.
Then he leaned over and kissed me.
You know those kisses that send electricity through you—that shoot right through your mouth and end up in your stomach somewhere? This one went straight down to my toes. I got goose bumps. I forgot where I was for a moment. I think I forgot who I was for a moment. We were both breathing hard when Malcolm finally pulled away from me.
“Call me when you’re done talking to the police, okay?” he whispered.
“I think… I think that maybe I’d better not. I don’t want them to track you down through me.” Oh, God. Surely those words weren’t really coming out of my mouth, were they?
But they were.
“I see.” Malcolm said quietly. He looked hurt and puzzled.
I had to fight myself not to kiss him again, to ask him to stay on my couch, in my bed, on the floor—to do anything other than leave.
But I really did know that this was for the best. I liked him too much to see him get hurt. And as nice as the kiss had been, I wasn’t ready to start seeing someone again. It had only been three weeks since Greg had un-died. So I just let Malcolm leave my apartment.
It was dark outside. I watched him shut the door behind himself, wanting to stop him but knowing I couldn’t. I knew he was hurt. I suspected he’d get angry after the immediate hurt wore off. I guess that’s why I didn’t suspect anything when I didn’t hear from him for six days.
In my own defense, I was distracted—both by Malcolm’s kiss and by what happened after he left.
But I still feel responsible. I should have known that something was
“Let’s find out.” I pulled the Hemastix out of the plastic store sack I had been carrying. I also pulled out a bottle of water. The instructions on the internet said to use sterile water. I don’t know if reverse osmosis counts as sterilization, but I figured it was close enough. I wasn’t going to send it off for DNA testing; I just wanted to verify that the shirt was blood-soaked.
It was. Malcolm didn’t say anything until after I had finished my test—dipping a Q-tip (also presumably not sterile, but so what?) into the bottle of water, rubbing it across the bloodstain, then rubbing it across the small strip from the Hemastix bottle.
I peered at the strip. It was a sickly shade of green. Yep. Blood.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Malcolm asked.
“Television. And the internet.”
“So you’re sure it’s blood?”
“I was sure before I did the test.” I sat down on the couch, holding the Hemastix test and staring at it despondently.
“You know,” Malcolm said, “this is beginning to feel a lot more serious than it did a few days ago.”
“No kidding.”
“I mean, it was one thing when we were sneaking around offices because your ex-boyfriend was a stalker or something. But I didn’t ever really expect to find anything.”
“Really? Because I did.” Okay, then. This was my opening. If Malcolm was going to live, I needed either to tell him everything or to find a way to make him go away.
I didn’t really want to do either of those things.
But I knew I had to. So I took a deep breath. “You’re right, Malcolm. This is a lot more serious than even I expected. I’m going to call the police.”
“What are you going to tell them? That we broke into your ex’s law office? They’ll arrest us.”
“Nope. They’re not going to do anything to us. They’re not going to know that an ‘us’ even exists. I’m going to tell them that I was unpacking a box from my old apartment and found a bunch of old papers that belonged to my ex-boyfriend, along with a bloody t-shirt. I’m not going to bring you into it at all.”
“Are you sure? I mean, you could say that I was with you when you found the stuff—” his voice trailed off. “No. I guess not. Okay.”
“So I think maybe you’d better go so I can do that. Okay?” I didn’t look up at him.
“Okay.” He whispered, and I realized he was standing just above me.
Then he leaned over and kissed me.
You know those kisses that send electricity through you—that shoot right through your mouth and end up in your stomach somewhere? This one went straight down to my toes. I got goose bumps. I forgot where I was for a moment. I think I forgot who I was for a moment. We were both breathing hard when Malcolm finally pulled away from me.
“Call me when you’re done talking to the police, okay?” he whispered.
“I think… I think that maybe I’d better not. I don’t want them to track you down through me.” Oh, God. Surely those words weren’t really coming out of my mouth, were they?
But they were.
“I see.” Malcolm said quietly. He looked hurt and puzzled.
I had to fight myself not to kiss him again, to ask him to stay on my couch, in my bed, on the floor—to do anything other than leave.
But I really did know that this was for the best. I liked him too much to see him get hurt. And as nice as the kiss had been, I wasn’t ready to start seeing someone again. It had only been three weeks since Greg had un-died. So I just let Malcolm leave my apartment.
It was dark outside. I watched him shut the door behind himself, wanting to stop him but knowing I couldn’t. I knew he was hurt. I suspected he’d get angry after the immediate hurt wore off. I guess that’s why I didn’t suspect anything when I didn’t hear from him for six days.
In my own defense, I was distracted—both by Malcolm’s kiss and by what happened after he left.
But I still feel responsible. I should have known that something was
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