No note, nothing. So I climbed into bed, shut off the lights, and fell asleep ten minutes later. Who knew anger and embarrassment were such good narcoleptics? I didn’t wake whenever he came in, but he must have, because when I woke up at ten this morning, his casket was locked. He probably stayed up until dawn “reminiscing” with that slut. Well, we’re supposed to be a typical married couple. Going to bed peeved at each other is a common characteristic. Whatever. Not going to give it a second, okay fifth, thought. I’ve got murders to solve. No time for mixed emotions or flashbacks to those kisses. Those toe-curling kisses. I make appointments with Amanda and Petra, friends of victim number two, and Rochelle, girlfriend of victim number three. All of whom have conspicuous memory loss. Those dang vamps think they’re so slick, but I’m black ice. Soon after I am driving up I-30 in my poly-blend gray suit and sensible black shoes—which had to be forced on due to last night’s escapades and still kill my poor footsies—on my way to Garland, Texas, to meet a witch.
