mightâve been moonlighting?â
My mind hooked on to the word and all I could think was how pretty it sounded. I imagined Bella climbing a ladder and flicking a switch, bathing the world with gentle white light.
âLike yourself, I mean,â he added.
Moonlighting . Bella wasnât one for moonlight. She was a morning person if there ever was one. She mustâve been so tired on Friday night, on top of everything else.
âCâmon, Chris,â Brandis said. âWe donât want to bust your chops over it, but everyone knows you ââ
âNo.â
âListen, youâre not in any trouble, we just need to ââ
âNot her. Thereâs no way.â
The detectives exchanged another one of those looks and my hand went hot with wanting to slap their faces.
âYou know itâs a high-risk profession,â Brandis said.
âWhat is? Cleaning up old peopleâs shit?â
âChris,â Brandis said and the younger one smiled. He fucking smiled.
We have to deal with this, I suppose.
The first time, three and a bit years ago, was an accident. It was a slow night at work and I got to talking with a long-distance truckie whoâd stopped into the pub for a feed. At the end of my shift, when he said heâd be sleeping in his truck that night, I invited him back to mine. Iâd been doing that a bit lately, asking blokes back. It hadnât been long since Nate left and I wanted nothing to do with love, you know, but the other business, well, Iâve always found it a good boost, to be honest.
Look, Iâm no great beauty but Iâm handy with make-up and keep myself fit and, harsh as it sounds, the same canât be said of most of the women my age around here. Iâm not having a go, just stating a fact: being single and childless gives you more time to spend on making yourself look nice. In this town, most women my age havenât been single and childless since they were young enough that they didnât need to make any effort, so, in that â if nothing else â I have an advantage.
Point being, Iâve never had much trouble attracting blokes and in the years since Iâve been divorced itâs only been easier. This probably sounds sad to you, but sometimes itâs whatâs kept me going. Like, thereâve been times Iâve felt so low, so down on myself and my life, and then some fella in the pub would start hanging around, finding excuses to talk to me. Iâd catch him perving when he thought I couldnât see. And it always gave me such a lift, no matter who he was. And if I liked him back, then even better. I tell you, it was a relief to learn, as a divorced thirty-four-year-old, that I could still feel that thrill, that bubbly, giddy, giggly excitement I had thought belonged to being sixteen and getting felt up in the movies for the first time.
Iâm not talking about love. Iâm resigned to the fact that Nateâs my one and only when it comes to that. And I donât think itâs even lust, although I can and do get swamped by that now and again, my god. But no, Iâm talking about something less dramatic but much sweeter. A crush, I suppose is the word. A crush that might only last a few hours and might end up in awkward sloppy kisses or might end up with mind-blowing sex or might never end up at all, just float away with the summer wind but that, while it lasts, makes you feel fresh and pretty and like your whole life is ahead of you.
Anyway, one night, I invite this bloke back to mine. Itâs like a hundrâ well, not that many, but like a bunch of times before. We have a drink or two and then a nice roll around under the covers and then in the morning heâs gone. But this time was different because this time after the bloke left there was a stack of twenties on the bedside table, folded up with a note saying: Had an early start. See ya next time Iâm in town,
Learning to Kill: Stories