Fortunately, the door doesn't open. Another knock follows, each one carrying a stronger sense of urgency than the first. I drag his unconscious body from the living room to the kitchen and place it behind the kitchen counter in a frantic attempt to hide it.

"Kaia!" comes a voice from behind the door.

"Give me a minute!" I yell back, still in the kitchen.

I hurriedly head to the door, grabbing my coat from the coat rack before unlocking it. Panting and disheveled, I greet Nellie.

"What are you doing? Who's in here with you?" she inquires, peering over my shoulder into the living room.

"Well, as you can see, there's no one here," I reply, tightening my robe as I usher her inside.

She takes a seat, an unamused expression on her face. "How am I supposed to believe no one is in here when there's a sports car parked in your driveway?"

"A sports car?" I ask out loud before realization hits, and I inwardly scold myself for not making him park his car in the garage.

"Come on," she says excitedly, still looking around. "Spill it."

"There really is no one here, and all this questioning is starting to give me a headache."

"Well, if you're not gonna tell me, I guess it's fine. Anyway, I brought you some chicken soup. Sorry I haven't come to see you since the club."

My eyes drift toward her feet until they land on a basket I hadn't noticed earlier. A warmth spreads through me, and I smile widely. But my blissful moment is cut short when I notice Jack's foot sticking out from behind the kitchen counter. I thank the stars Nellie chose to sit opposite me today. A wave of unease washes over me, and I involuntarily swallow hard, a gulp escaping my throat. Nellie catches on to my discomfort and snaps her fingers in front of me, snapping me back to the conversation.

"Are you even listening? I said Tammy's ex was murdered. What are you looking at?" she asks, her gaze beginning to shift over her shoulder.

I quickly grab her arm and pull her up off the couch, pretending to be hit with a sudden stomach ache, and drag her toward the door. As soon as she's outside, I shut the door behind her and lock it, letting out a sigh of relief. I rush back to the kitchen, grab Jack by the underarms, and drag his unconscious body down a few stairs to my workspace.

My workspace is simply a hidden basement that I have repurposed into a lab of sorts to conduct my experiments. The basement lab is dimly lit with the faint flickering of an outdated fluorescent light casting dancing shadows across the room. The tiles on the walls, formerly white, have turned a dingy off-color. A small puddle has formed at the edges of the room, fed by the slow drip of the old, rusty pipes overhead. An old cassette player sits on a metallic shelf by the wall next to tools such as a mini chainsaw, screwdriver, and mallet. The cold, cracked concrete floor is stained with remnants of my past "work." In the center of the room is an old, rusted hospital bed with an operating light overhead. Next to the bed is outdated hospital equipment with various tubes still attached.

On a nearby table lie medical tools neatly arranged on stainless steel trays—vials, scalpels, and syringes ready for immediate use. I haul Jack's limp body onto the bed, strapping his wrists and ankles down with leather restraints, ensuring he won't be able to move when he wakes up. His breathing is shallow, almost peaceful, as I double-check the straps, making sure they're secure.

Satisfied with my work, I head back upstairs, grab the basket containing the soup Nellie brought over, and make my way to the kitchen. The aroma fills the air as the soup bubbles softly on the stove.

Two hours later, I return to the basement, this time carrying a small leather-bound diary, to find Jack still undisturbed in his sedated sleep with drool pooling at the side of his mouth. I drop the diary on the operating table in and it lands with a thud. I angle the operating room light toward his face, and flick it on. The bright light hits him square in the face, and he slowly stirs, his eyes blinking as he tries to focus.

"Hey there, sleepyhead," I say in a singsong voice, as if talking to a baby.

"What... Where am I?" he asks, panic creeping into his voice as he notices the restraints. He starts to struggle, hurling a string of curses at me.

"Struggling is futile, Mr. Ambrose."

He changes his tune, eyes teary, and begins to plead with me instead. "Please, don't kill me."

I lean in closer to his face, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Don't worry, I'm not going to let you die. Yet."

I grab my diary and flip through the pages, reviewing the conclusions of previous experiments. Satisfied, I head over to the cassette player, insert a tape, and press play. The sound of Mozart fills the room. I make a show of walking back to the table, bopping my head and moving my arms like a conductor, relishing the moment.

Armed with my tools, I make various cuts and incisions on his body, varying in size and depth. I stitch the cuts only to make new ones, repeating the process with meticulous precision. I inject vials of strange liquids into his arm—some cause the surface of his skin to bubble, leaving blisters behind, while others make his eyes roll back as he writhes in pain, veins bulging. Blood, flesh, and other fluids fly across the room, bits landing on my face close to my eyes. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, a sinister smile on my lips. His screams mix with the music, creating a tantalizing symphony in my ears.

Jack finally croaks at dawn, on Sunday, around three a.m., in the process of a lobotomy. I put down my mallet and yank the pick from his eye socket, causing his eyeball to jut out and roll onto the floor. Saddened but not surprised, I prepare to move his body. Before doing so, I slip on a fresh pair of gloves and pull a disposable coverall over my clothes. No need to get blood or anything else on me during this final step.

With everything in place, I drag him out of the basement and hurl him into the passenger seat of his car, now parked in my garage. I buckle him up for extra measure, then slide into the driver's seat. His slumped form looks almost comical, strapped in beside me.

I drive further into the outskirts until I find a thickening of trees resembling a forest. Tree branches scrape the sides of the car and slap across the windshield as I push deeper into the woods.

When I feel satisfied with the location, I get out of the car and douse Jack's body and the vehicle in gasoline. I strike a match and toss it toward the car, watching as it's immediately engulfed in flames. The smell of burning flesh wafts through the air. Smoke rises into the dark night sky as I make my way back home on foot, with the flames fading into the distance. .