The college kids I hired to pack the truck arrive at the apartment at eight on the dot and set right to work. They carry the boxes and furniture down to the truck I picked up yesterday afternoon—way faster than I expected—and then they leave to get breakfast, with the promise to meet me at the new house at eleven.
As soon as Bryony arrives, I yank her into the empty apartment and slam and lock the door. “You are not going to believe this.” I didn’t call her last night—I was worried that maybe Rob is somehow listening in on my phone calls.
I’m like an instant paranoia soup. Just add water and I’m ready to freak out.
I tell Bryony the whole sordid story, including how my prized statuette collection is all from that psychopath.
“We could kill him, you know. Hide the body. I watch a lot of
