She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. Well, you shall know. She could not risk going in the door, lest she run into Larry or Cathy drinking a nocturnal glass of milk or Mike raiding the refrigerator for snacks. “You cannot say that you did not expect me,” he answered. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. ‘This, as you see, is an identity for your cousin, André Valade.
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