Sociopaths In Love by Andersen Prunty Page A

together."
    "Are you going to keep doing that?"
    "What, baby?"
    "What you were doing with that woman."
    "Would you rather her be alive? Hard to be
jealous of a dead woman."
    "Jealousy is different than repulsion."
    "What's there to be repulsed about? It's
just flesh. Same as if she was alive. Less repulsive, I'd say,
since she's not even conscious of it happening."
    Erica rolled her eyes. "I
just don't see why you needed to do that. You have me ."
    He placed a hand over his forehead and used
the thumb and middle finger to massage his temples. "I guess I
couldn't help myself. You were gone for a pretty long time. I
wasn't sure when you'd be back."
    "Did you think I wasn't coming back at
all?"
    "I didn't know. A girl like you out there
alone . . . You don't know what could have happened.
Besides, I didn't finish with her. We'll be able to do something
later. I mean I just fucked her a little bit, like, not until I
came or anything."
    Erica thought about protesting but knew it
wouldn't do any good. She'd let him do whatever he wanted to anyway
because it would be what she wanted too. The thought of entering
the owners' apartment, murdering them, and dropping their baby off
with a homeless guy who was also possibly crazy should have made
her depressed, but it didn't. She would rather the owners not have
been there but that was mostly just because it would have made it a
lot easier. She took a deep breath. Tried to put things into
perspective. Maybe it was the struggle, however slight, that would
end up making this great apartment even more worthwhile. The
thought of fucking Walt on the owners' bed, possibly the very bed
their baby had been conceived on, made her slightly wet. And, after
all, they hadn't killed the baby. If she'd let Walt do that, maybe
she would have felt more sadness. But who knew?
    Walt began dragging the
bodies into the largest of the bathrooms off the main bedroom.
Before trying to clean up the blood, Erica walked around the
apartment to see if it had been worth it. Light birch floors
throughout. White walls, except for the nursery. She'd probably
have to change that. She wasn't a big fan of pink. Spacious kitchen
with stainless steel appliances, most of the brands so high end
they weren't even familiar to her. It was impressive, but the
kitchen wasn't really her thing. The living room had an angular
black couch, leather or an impressive imitation. No, it was
definitely leather unless it was one of those eco-friendly vegan
kinds of material. A couple of chairs at either end of the couch. A
swamp green rug she hated on sight. A black coffee table shaped
like a surfboard. French doors opened onto a balcony overlooking
the tiny city. She opened the doors to let in the breeze. Sirens
blared a couple of blocks away. She walked down the hall, careful
to avoid the twin tracks of blood left by the man's feet. She'd
already seen the nursery at the end of the hall so she followed the
trail of blood into the master bedroom. A huge bed covered in clean
white linens. Neat dark wood nightstands with industrial-looking
lamps on either side. Only one of the lamps was on but she knew it
emitted just the right amount of light. She hadn't owned or used many expensive
things but, in her experience, those were the ones that seemed to
work better. She always thought it wasn't really any wonder poor
people were so unhappy. When everything you own is junk that only
does the job half right, it makes whatever you're trying to do seem
like a chore. This room also had French doors opening onto a second
balcony. Or maybe this was the first balcony and the other one was
the second. It probably didn't matter but she was sure there was a
correct term for each of them. Like the major and minor balcony or
something. She opened these too. The smell of blood wasn't so bad
when the air mingled with it. Another siren joined the one already
going, a growing chorus. For just a moment, she was worried the
sirens were meant for them. But it was