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Don’t question me

He was meticulous in the clean-up. Very meticulous. Very calm. Very cool and collected.

Whistling as he removed the blood-stained Thomas Pink shirt he was wearing, he mopped up the mess in the living room. His favourite Arcos lamp had tiny splatters of blood on the base. The vivid red, varnish-looking blood was seeping into the white sheepskin rug. He gave a resigned sigh of disappointment as he bundled the once-white rug into a black garbage bag: his mother had given it to him when he moved into this apartment. When he was done, the living room reeked of disinfectant.

The Collector had arrived an hour earlier to collect Kara’s body. The Collector was a specialist. He would dispose of Kara appropriately. He did look lovingly at Kara’s limp form as the Collector bundled her up in his prized Egytian cotton sheets and into a body bag. Oh, Kara, he thought. If only you hadn’t questioned me…

Now, he strode over to his laptop, checked his emails, played some music on iTunes. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a brochure for St. Tropez. He and Kara had booked¬†cheap flights for various holiday destinations a few months ago. Too bad she wouldn’t have been able to enjoy it with him.¬†

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