The husband had hanged himself with that rope from the hardware store. The thudding of Sxip’s heart was like a drumbeat hammering in his chest.
And what was that smell? The guy had pissed himself.
Something compelled Sxip to cut the poor bastard down. Snatching up the pocketknife on the floor below the corpse’s swaying feet, Sxip scrambled onto the knocked-over crate and began to cut the rope. Sawing the blade back and forth took effort, but finally one of the strands gave way, then another, until the rope yielded and the body fell with a thud onto the floorboards.
Sxip jumped off the crate. What should he do now? Call 911? But how would he explain what he was doing in Felicity’s house with her dead husband?
No, he couldn’t call 911; instead, he’d bolt out of here. He chucked the knife
