Chapter 1: Blood and Blanks

I killed someone, but I can't remember where I hid the body. My tongue tastes like metal and fear.

And now, a murder notebook has appeared out of nowhere in my home.

The handwriting inside is my fiancée’s.

But she disappeared a week ago.

Maybe it was the hangover, but when I woke up on the couch, my head was pounding. The couch fabric scratched my cheek. My mouth was dry, sticky with the aftertaste of cheap whiskey.

As the early morning sun cut through the gaps in the blinds, I squinted against the light and groaned, feeling every throb behind my eyes. The couch cushions dug into my back, the TV remote buried somewhere beneath me. I tried to rewind last night, but my thoughts just fizzed and broke apart like a busted radio.

I raised my hand to rub my temples—only then did I realize I was holding a knife.

Its cold handle pressed into my palm. I stared, numb, at the serrated edge catching the light, stained a rusty brown. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped it, knuckles going white as I gripped the handle. A jolt of panic raced through me.

The blood on the blade had already dried. I had no memory of what had happened.

I checked the blade again, almost hoping I’d see ketchup or some other explanation, but the dark flakes told the truth. My stomach twisted.

There were faint bloodstains on the front of my shirt, but after checking myself over for a long time, I found no wounds.

My fingers trembled as I searched my arms, chest, even my scalp for a cut or scrape—nothing. The shirt, a faded old band tee, bore splotches the color of dried cherries. A sour tang of old blood and sweat hovered around me, making me queasy.

And last night, I hadn’t even been drinking at home.

I tried to replay the night, but all I remembered was laughing with coworkers at Lucky’s Bar, the neon Bud Light sign flickering above sticky tables, the echo of closing time in my ears. I must’ve called an Uber, but the rest was blank.

Yet here I was, sitting on my own couch.

The familiar blue plaid blanket was tangled around my legs, the hum of the old fridge barely audible from the kitchen. A half-eaten slice of cold pizza drooped over the edge of the counter, grease soaking into a pile of unopened mail. For a second, everything looked normal, but nothing felt normal.

As for how I got back, I had no recollection—just like I had no idea why this sharp knife was in my hand.

I pressed my palm to my forehead, sweat gathering at my hairline. A chill crawled down my back. I’d never blacked out like this before—not without waking up with a splitting headache and regret, but never a weapon.

While I was still trying to figure it out, a sudden knock at the door jolted me wide awake.

It was the kind of knock that meant business—firm, insistent, echoing in the quiet apartment. I nearly dropped the knife, heart racing.

Whoever it was, I absolutely couldn’t let them see me like this.

My mind snapped into survival mode. I yanked my shirt over my head, wrapping the knife inside, hands fumbling. I darted to the back porch, nearly tripping over the dog’s chew toy, and crammed the whole bundle into the old plastic storage cabinet next to the snow shovel and dead batteries. I grabbed a random shirt from the laundry basket—a wrinkled, paint-splattered one Lillian always threatened to throw out.

The knocking continued. I stood at the door, tried to steady my breathing, and then cracked it open.

I forced a tired smile, feigning casual. Standing outside was a woman of about thirty, thin and efficient-looking.

"Hi, I’m from SparkleClean. You booked today’s cleaning service." She wore a small work badge on her chest.

She smelled faintly of lavender detergent. Her voice was crisp, rehearsed—she’d done this a thousand times.

"I didn’t book anything. You must have the wrong place." I started to close the door, but she slipped her hand inside to stop it.

She wasn’t having it. "Look, I’ve cleaned here before. See? Your address is right here on my app." The booking page she showed did have my address on it.

I recognized the way she tapped her phone, impatient and practiced. If it wasn’t her first visit, it must have been my fiancée, Lillian, who booked it before.

"Now’s not a good time. Come another day."

My voice came out more desperate than I wanted. I could feel sweat prickling under my arms, nerves sparking.

"Sorry, but changing the appointment requires at least a day’s notice. I’m fully booked this week and can’t reschedule."

She looked down at her clipboard, eyebrows raised in mild annoyance. I imagined her boss docking her pay if she didn’t deliver. I was growing impatient, but didn’t dare show it too much.

"Then just cancel it. I don’t even want the deposit back." I silently prayed she wouldn’t insist.

She let out a sigh. "Your partner booked it before, right?" She seemed to see right through me. "We always take full payment up front. Two hours, $120, full-house deep cleaning."

Her words made me flinch, as if she was accusing me of something worse than skipping out on a cleaning. My gut twisted. "Really, I don’t need it. Just pretend you’ve already cleaned—I won’t complain." I cut her off, a little forcefully.

She crossed her arms, mouth pressed thin. "If you really don’t need cleaning," she looked troubled too, "our company requires us to upload photos to the platform after every job. Could I at least go in and take a few pictures?"

The request sounded innocent, but I could barely keep my face from twitching. Usually, I would have let her in without a second thought. But my mind was on that bloody knife. If there were any other suspicious things in the house and she happened to find them, that would be a disaster.

If she saw the knife—or worse, the blood—she’d call the cops, and I’d be toast. My heart hammered so loud I was sure she could hear it through the door.

I felt the words bubbling up, sharp on my tongue. "I’ll say it one last time: I don’t need it. If you keep pestering me, I’ll—" I didn’t dare finish the sentence.

The more you say, the more likely you are to slip up. I didn’t give her another chance to speak and shut the door immediately.

The deadbolt slid home with a heavy clack. My shoulders sagged as I pressed my forehead against the cool wood, waiting for her footsteps to fade.

Back in the living room, I felt something was off.

A prickle ran up my neck. Was the porch window open just now?

Thinking back, the cleaning lady kept glancing inside. I thought she was just checking if Lillian was home.

I replayed the memory: her gaze darting behind me, lingering on the side porch. When we bought this place, Lillian said she loved the little yard, so we chose a ground-floor unit. To get a better view, we replaced the porch door with a floor-to-ceiling window and added a sliding door on the side.

On spring mornings, we’d sit there with coffee, the scent of cut grass drifting in. Now the glass felt like an exposed nerve.

Cold sweat broke out on my back. I hesitated, then walked over to the storage cabinet.

Every step felt like wading through syrup. The clothes I’d just taken off—the ones wrapped around the knife—were gone.

My heart leapt into my throat. I tore through the cabinet, but it was empty except for old gardening gloves and a half-used bag of charcoal. Everything had changed so suddenly, I almost wondered if I’d imagined what happened that morning.

I stared at my empty hands, knuckles white. Before I could sort out my thoughts, the knocking sounded again, at the worst possible moment.

I jumped, nerves raw. "Why are you back—" I started, but stopped short. The person outside wasn’t the cleaning lady.

It was Lillian’s brother, Caleb.

Caleb stood there in a windbreaker, his dark hair windblown, jaw set tight. He looked like he hadn’t slept much either.

"Oh, it’s you, Caleb." I breathed a temporary sigh of relief, but soon tensed up again.

I could send the cleaning lady away, but I had no reason to keep Caleb out.

He didn’t bother with small talk. But Caleb didn’t seem interested in coming in. Instead, he gestured for me to follow him.

"There’s news about Lillian. Come with me."