Lena Vance had three rules for dating:

Never date a man with a snake tattoo.

Never date a man who says “I’m an entrepreneur” but won’t specify of what.

Never, under any circumstances, date a man you found standing over a dead body.

She was currently breaking rule #3.

The body belonged to Derek. Or, _had_ belonged to Derek. Now it was mostly a conversation piece. A very dead, very naked, very not-breathing conversation piece sprawled across the kitchen floor of Apartment 4B.

The man standing over it was named Silas. Silas had cheekbones that could cut glass, a jawline that belonged on a wanted poster, and blood on his hands. Metaphorically. And literally. A little.

“Okay,” Lena said, because what else do you say when you walk into your Tinder date’s apartment and there’s a corpse? “So. This is awkward.”

Silas looked up. He was holding a kitchen knife. He was also holding a lemon. The juxtaposition was not comforting.

“He’s not mine,” Silas said.

“The body or the lemon?”

“Both.” He set the knife down. Not threatening. More like _I was making fish_. “I came home. Found him like this. Was about to call 911.”

“You were about to call 911 with a lemon in your hand.”

“I panic-zest.”

Lena should have left. Lena should have run. Lena should have listened to Rule #3, which she had written in her journal after the incident with Kyle, the “crypto investor” who turned out to be a magician’s assistant and also had a warrant in Ohio.

Instead, Lena looked at Derek. Derek had been her date last week. Derek had a snake tattoo. Derek had called himself an “idea man.” Derek had also stolen her AirPods and ghosted her after she refused to invest in his NFT for alpacas.

“Is that…” Lena squinted. “Is that my AirPod in his mouth?”

Silas crouched. Poked it with the lemon. “Yep. Pro Max. Nice.”

Lena felt something. Not grief. Not shock. Something warmer. _Vindication_.

“Huh,” she said.

“Huh,” Silas agreed.

They stood there. A dead ex. A hot stranger. A lemon. The three pillars of modern romance.

“Did you kill him?” Lena asked. Because if you’re going to break Rule #3, you should at least get clarity.

Silas looked offended. “Do I look like I’d kill a man and then zest a lemon about it?”

“You look like you’d kill a man _while_ zesting a lemon. Efficient.”

He almost smiled. Almost. “I didn’t. But I know who did.”

“Who?”

“Me,” said a voice from the hallway bathroom.

Lena and Silas both turned.

A woman walked out. She was 5’2”, wearing a _Bride-to-Be_ sash, holding a bloody stiletto in one hand and a pregnancy test in the other.

“Oh,” the woman said, looking at Derek. Then at Lena. Then at Silas. “You must be the next one.”

Lena blinked. “The next what?”

“Victim? Date? I’m not sure what his system is.” She tossed the stiletto in the sink. It clattered. “I’m Becca. Derek’s fiancée. Was. Apparently he had a few of those.”

Silas picked the lemon back up. “I’m going to need a drink for this.”

“Kitchen’s a crime scene,” Becca said. “Living room’s fine. Unless you count the _other_ body.”

Lena choked. “I’m sorry, the _OTHER_ body?”

Becca pointed with the pregnancy test. “Brad. In the closet. Also an ex. Also had your AirPods, I think. Derek was a… collector.”

Silas went to the closet. Opened it. Closed it. “Yep. That’s a Brad.”

Lena sat down on the floor. Not because she was faint. Because her legs just gave up. “I came here for tacos and bad decisions. Not a multi-level-marketing scheme of murder.”

“I make good tacos,” Silas offered.

“You make good _murder tacos_?”

“I make good _regular_ tacos. The murder was Becca’s.”

“Hey!” Becca waved the pregnancy test. “This is positive. I’m hormonal. He told me the baby wasn’t his. He told me _you_ were his girlfriend, Silas.”

Silas paused. “I’m a dude.”

“He was very open-minded,” Becca sobbed. “And very dead now.”

Lena looked at Derek. Then Brad. Then Becca. Then Silas, who was now squeezing the lemon into a glass of tequila he’d produced from nowhere.

“So,” Lena said slowly. “Let me get this straight. I matched with Derek on Tinder. He stole my AirPods. He was engaged to Becca, dating Brad, and apparently also telling people he was with you?”

Silas sipped his tequila. “I’m his landlord. He owed me rent.”

“Of course you are.”

“He said he’d pay me in exposure.”

“Derek,” Lena said to the corpse, “you absolute idiot.”

Becca sniffled. “So what now? We call the cops? I can’t go to jail. I have a baby. And a sash.”

Silas looked at Lena. Lena looked at Silas. Something passed between them. Something stupid. Something dangerous. Something that felt a lot like _chemistry_, which was insane because there were two bodies in the room and one of them was her ex.

“We could,” Silas said, “not call the cops.”

Lena stared. “I’m sorry, did you just _suggest_ becoming accessories to double homicide?”

“I suggested _not_ spending the next decade explaining why we were all in an apartment with two dead men and a lemon.” He held out the tequila. “Also, I really do make good tacos.”

Becca perked up. “I could eat.”

“FBI!” shouted a voice from the window.

Everyone froze.

A raccoon fell through the screen, landed on Brad, and hissed.

“…Not FBI,” Lena whispered.

The raccoon grabbed an AirPod and left the way it came.

Three seconds of silence.

Then Silas started laughing. Real, awful, helpless laughter. The kind that happens at funerals and in war zones. The kind that means you’ve chosen violence or love and sometimes they’re the same thing.

Becca started crying again. “I think I’m having a breakdown.”

Lena took the tequila from Silas. Drank it. It burned. It was good.

“Okay,” she said. “New rules.”

Silas raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Rule #1: We get rid of the bodies.”

“Rule #2: Someone explains why Derek had a harem and a death wish.”

“Rule #3…” She looked at Silas. At his blood-stained hands. At his stupid, criminal, beautiful face.

“Screw Rule #3,” Lena said. “Hand me another lemon.”

Silas grinned. It was the first honest thing she’d seen all night.

Outside, sirens wailed. Or maybe it was just the ice cream truck. In Apartment 4B, it was hard to tell the difference.

---

*End of Chapter 1*

*Content warnings:* Murder, dark humor, pregnancy, theft, raccoons, bad men, worse decisions.

Rule #1: We get rid of the bodies.

That was the easy part to say. The hard part was the logistics.

Because it turns out, Apartment 4B did not come with a “Hide Two Ex-Boyfriends and One Existential Crisis” manual. It came with a leaky faucet, a landlord who panic-zests, and a pregnant woman in a _Bride-to-Be_ sash crying into a bag of stolen Tostitos.

“Okay,” Lena said, still holding the second lemon Silas had handed her. “Step one. Is anyone here actually a criminal? Like, professionally?”

Becca raised her hand. Then lowered it. “I once returned a dress to Target after wearing it to a wedding. Does that count?”

“No,” Silas said. He was wrapping his hand in a dish towel. Not because of the blood. Because he’d cut himself zesting. “I’m a landlord. And a part-time bartender. My only crime is charging $2,400 for this place.”

“$2,400 for two corpses and a raccoon problem?” Lena gestured at the window. “You should be in jail.”

“Not helpful.” Silas looked at Derek. Then at the closet. “We need tarps. And bleach. And an alibi that doesn’t involve the words ‘we found him like this.’”

Becca sniffled. “I have trash bags. Scented. Lavender.”

“Because if there’s one thing this situation needs,” Lena muttered, “it’s the smell of a grandma’s soap drawer.”

Here’s what happened next, in case you ever need to know:

*6:13 PM:* Becca produced the trash bags. She also produced three more pregnancy tests. All positive. “Just to be sure,” she said. “In case the first three were lying.”

*6:17 PM:* Silas explained that he couldn’t help move Derek because he’d “thrown his back out doing CrossFit ironically.” Lena explained that she couldn’t help because she had “boundaries.” Becca explained that she couldn’t help because she was “carrying precious cargo” and then burped.

*6:22 PM:* Bear — no, wrong story. There was no Bear here. There was only Brad, in the closet, who was starting to smell like a mistake.

*6:30 PM:* Lena realized Derek still had her AirPods. Plural. One in his mouth. One clutched in his dead hand like it was the secret to the universe.

“I’m not leaving those,” she said. “They were a gift. From me. To me. For my birthday.”

“You want to pry open a dead man’s fist for Bluetooth?” Silas asked.

“You want to explain to the cops why he choked on tech you didn’t report stolen?”

Fair point.

*6:41 PM:* The prying happened. It was worse than it sounds. It sounds pretty bad.

*6:45 PM:* Becca threw up in the lavender trash bag. “Might as well break it in,” she said.

*7:00 PM:* They had a plan. A bad plan. The kind of plan you make when you’re 28, sleep-deprived, and your Tinder date turned into _Dateline_.

Step 1: Wrap Derek. Wrap Brad.

Step 2: Use Silas’s pickup truck. The one he swore was “just for Home Depot runs” and not “body disposal.”

Step 3: Drive to the reservoir. Silas knew a spot. “From fishing,” he said. Nobody asked what kind of fish.

Step 4: Don’t get caught.

Step 5: Tacos. Because if you’re going to become a felon, you should at least be a fed felon.

*7:30 PM:* Problems arose.

Problem #1: Derek was heavy. “Muscle weighs more than fat,” Silas said, struggling. “And ego weighs more than both.” Derek had been very into himself. And protein shakes.

Problem #2: Brad was in a closet that was now considered a _confined space_. OSHA would not approve.

Problem #3: Becca kept naming the bodies. “This is Derek. He liked Coldplay and lying. This is Brad. He called me ‘mommy’ once, but not in a hot way.”

“Can you _not_,” Lena said, “give them eulogies? We’re trying to commit a crime, not host a podcast.”

*8:15 PM:* They got Derek into a rug. It was a nice rug. Persian. Probably stolen. “He said it was from his travels,” Silas said. “Turns out his only travel was to IKEA.”

*8:32 PM:* The hallway.

Mr. Peterson from 4C opened his door. He was 87. He was wearing a bathrobe. He was holding a cat named Chairman Meow.

“Evening,” Silas said, calm as a funeral director. “Just helping Derek move.”

Mr. Peterson looked at the rug. The rug was shaped like a man. A man-shaped lump. “At night?”

“Derek’s nocturnal,” Becca blurted. “Like an owl. A very… dead… owl. Of sleep!”

Mr. Peterson squinted. “Is that a foot?”

“That’s a lamp,” Lena said. She kicked the lump. It grunted. No. That was her. She grunted. From effort. And guilt.

“Huh,” Mr. Peterson said. Chairman Meow hissed at the rug. Cats know. Cats always know.

*8:33 PM:* Mr. Peterson closed his door. “You kids have fun. Don’t do drugs.”

“We’re doing the opposite of drugs,” Silas called after him. “We’re doing _organization_.”

*9:00 PM:* The truck.

Silas popped the tailgate. “I usually use this for lumber.”

“Today it’s lumber and lumps,” Lena said.

They loaded Derek. They loaded Brad. Becca climbed in the back with them “for emotional support.”

“Is that legal?” Lena asked.

“It’s not _illegal_ if she consents,” Silas said. “I think. I’m not a lawyer. I’m a landlord who makes tacos.”

“That’s your whole personality now,” Lena said.

“It’s better than ‘accessory to murder.’”

*9:17 PM:* The drive.

Silas drove. Lena rode shotgun, clutching the lemon like a weapon. Becca rode in the back, between two rug-burritos, giving them a TED Talk about Derek’s red flags.

“He said his safe word was ‘blockchain.’ Who _does_ that?”

“He had a playlist called ‘For The Girls I Traumatize.’”

“He told me his mom was dead. His mom commented on his Instagram yesterday. ‘Have a blessed day, sweetie.’”

“Okay,” Lena said, turning around. “You win. He was the worst. Can we focus? We’re literally driving to dump your fiancé.”

“Ex-fiancé,” Becca corrected. “And don’t forget Brad. He was nobody’s fiancé. He was just… here. Like a bad smell. Or a subscription you forget to cancel.”

*9:44 PM:* The reservoir.

It was dark. It was quiet. It was the kind of place people went to propose or dispose. Silas backed the truck up to the water.

“Last chance,” he said. “We can still call the cops. Say Becca acted in self-defense. Say I found them. Say you were never here.”

Becca touched her stomach. “I’m not raising my kid on prison visits.”

Lena looked at Derek’s rug. At Brad’s rug. At her AirPods, finally back in her ears. Noise-canceling. Which felt appropriate.

“Do it,” she said.

So they did.

It was quiet. Too quiet. No splash. Just… gone. Like Derek’s personality.

*10:00 PM:* The ride back.

No one talked. Becca fell asleep. On the floor of the truck. Using a lavender trash bag as a pillow.

Silas broke the silence first. “So. Tacos?”

Lena stared at him. “You’re a psychopath.”

“I’m a realist with carne asada.” He glanced at her. “You’re still here. That says something.”

“Yeah. It says I need therapy and a new dating app. One that screens for ‘not a serial monogamist with a corpse collection.’”

Silas pulled into a 24-hour taqueria. “Rule #3 was dumb anyway.”

“Rule #3 was _don’t date a man standing over a dead body_.”

“And now you’re eating tacos with him after helping hide two.” He passed her a plate. “Face it, Vance. You’re bad at rules. You’re good at bad decisions.”

Lena took a bite. He was right about the tacos. Damn him.

Becca woke up. “Are we at the part where we swear a blood oath?”

“We’re at the part where we eat,” Silas said. “Blood oaths are after dessert.”

Lena looked at them. A landlord. A pregnant bride. Her, a woman who’d just helped dump her ex in a reservoir.

This was her crew now.

Outside, the ice cream truck rolled past. Or maybe it was sirens. In Apartment 4B, and everywhere else, it was getting harder to tell the difference.

Lena woke up to three things:

The taste of carne asada and guilt.

A text from an unknown number that said _We need to talk. About Derek._

Becca, asleep on her couch, using Lena’s throw pillow as a pregnancy support wedge and snoring like a haunted chainsaw.

The apartment smelled like lavender trash bags and regret.

“Oh good,” Lena said to her ceiling. “The felony slept over.”

Becca sat up, sash askew, hair like she’d been electrocuted by bad choices. “Did we dream last night? Or did we actually commit a water crime?”

“Water crime,” Silas said from the kitchen. He was there. Of course he was there. He was making coffee in Lena’s kitchen like he paid rent. He did not pay rent. “And technically it’s tampering with evidence. Dumping a body is just the hobby.”

“You have a key?” Lena asked.

“You left your door unlocked. Again. Do you _want_ to die?” He slid a mug toward her. “Also, you have cops.”

Lena choked on air. “I’m sorry, I have _what_?”

“Cops,” Silas repeated. “Outside. Unmarked car. Been there 20 minutes. Either they’re here for the double homicide or your expired tags. Fifty-fifty.”

Becca gasped and clutched her sash. “They know. Chairman Meow told them.”

“Chairman Meow is a cat,” Lena said, but she was already peeking through the blinds. Black sedan. Two men. One drinking coffee. The other staring at her window like it owed him money.

The text buzzed again. _We need to talk. About Derek. — Detective M. Chen_

“Oh,” Lena said. “Oh no.”

“Plan?” Silas asked. He was suspiciously calm for a man who’d helped rug-burrito two people 12 hours ago.

“Plan,” Lena echoed. “Right. Step one: don’t confess. Step two: remember we’re innocent. Ish. Step three: Becca, put on pants. You can’t be interrogated in a sash. It’s a power imbalance.”

“I _am_ the power,” Becca said, but she waddled to the bathroom. “My hormones could get anyone to confess. Even you, Landlord.”

“Don’t call me that,” Silas said. “It makes me sound like I have a 401k.”

*8:07 AM:* Knock.

Not a polite knock. A _we-have-a-warrant-but-we’re-trying-to-be-chill_ knock.

Lena opened the door. Detective M. Chen was about 35, tired, and wearing a blazer that had seen things. His partner was younger, freckled, and holding a notebook that said _CASE FILES_ in glitter pen. His name tag said _Officer K. Dunn_. He looked like he’d lost a bet.

“Ms. Vance?” Chen said. “Lena Vance?”

“That’s my name,” Lena said. “Don’t wear it out.”

Silas appeared behind her, leaning on the doorframe like this was a sitcom and not a felony. “Cops! To what do we owe the pleasure? Noise complaint? I told Becca to stop sobbing at 3 AM but pregnancy is loud.”

Becca chose that moment to walk out of the bathroom in Lena’s sweatpants and a shirt that said _I Paused My Murder Podcast For This_.

Chen blinked. Dunn wrote something down. Probably _suspicious_ in glitter.

“We’re looking for Derek Walsh,” Chen said. “His mother filed a missing persons. Said he didn’t show for Sunday dinner. Said his phone’s off. Said the last person he texted was you.”

Lena’s stomach became a crime scene. “Right. Derek. Yeah. We… went on a date. Last week. It didn’t work out. He stole my AirPods.”

“AirPods,” Dunn repeated, writing it down. _AirPods_ in glitter. _Stolen_ underlined twice.

“He’s known to do that,” Chen said. “We have three other reports. One from a Brad Kowalski. You know him?”

Becca made a noise like a teapot. Silas coughed into his coffee.

“Brad?” Lena said. “Can’t say I do. Common name. Like… Chris. Or Crime.”

“Uh-huh.” Chen looked past her. Into the apartment. “Mind if we come in? Ask a few questions?”

Yes. Lena minded. Lena minded very much. Because her couch still smelled like lavender and bad life choices, and there was a bloody stiletto in her sink she’d forgotten to throw away.

But Silas stepped back. “Mi casa es su casa. Unless you have a warrant. Do you have a warrant?”

“We don’t,” Chen said. “Yet.”

“Then mi casa is still mi casa,” Silas said, smiling. “But you can stand there. In the doorway. Like a vampire. It’s respectful.”

Dunn kept writing. _Vampire_ now in the notebook. Great.

“Ms. Vance, when’s the last time you saw Derek?” Chen asked.

Tuesday. In a rug. Entering the reservoir. But Lena said, “Last Thursday. Tinder date. He ordered the squid. I paid. He ghosted. End of story.”

“And you are?” Chen looked at Silas.

“Silas Reed. Landlord. Derek was my tenant. Owed me rent. Paid me in excuses and exposure.”

“And you?” Chen looked at Becca.

“Becca Morales,” she said, hand on her stomach. “Fiancée. Ex. It’s complicated. He told me he was joining the Peace Corps. I think he meant ‘pieces’ of ‘corpse’ but I’m hormonal.”

Dunn stopped writing. “I’m gonna need you to say that again. Slowly.”

“She’s kidding,” Lena said. “Pregnancy brain. It’s like regular brain but with more war crimes.”

Chen stared. For a long time. Then: “Mr. Peterson in 4C says he saw you three moving a ‘large rug’ last night. Said it ‘grunted.’ Said there was a cat involved.”

Chairman Meow. That narc.

“It was a rug,” Silas said. “Vintage. Derek was selling it. We helped him move it to his new place. In… Canada.”

“Canada,” Chen repeated.

“Very rug-friendly,” Becca added. “Because of the moose.”

Dunn wrote _Moose?_ and drew a little antler doodle.

“Right,” Chen said. “Well. If you see Derek, tell him his mom’s worried. And tell him Brad’s mom is also worried. And tell him the cops are worried. And tell him… actually, just tell him to call his mom.”

“Will do,” Lena said. “If I see him. Which I won’t. Because Canada.”

Chen handed her a card. “If you remember anything. Anything at all. Call me.”

He looked at Silas. “You seem familiar.”

“I get that a lot,” Silas said. “I have one of those faces. Very punchable. Very forgettable.”

Chen didn’t smile. Dunn waved. “Bye, Ms. Vance. Bye, Bride-to-Be. Bye, Landlord.”

They left. The unmarked car stayed. Parked. Watching.

*8:32 AM:* Lena shut the door. Locked it. Deadbolted it. Considered bricking it up.

“We’re screwed,” she said.

“We’re not screwed,” Silas said. “We’re _persons of interest_. That’s like being famous but with more paperwork.”

“They know,” Becca whispered. “They know we know they know.”

“Okay, stop,” Lena said. “New rules. Rule #1: Nobody talks. Rule #2: Nobody texts. Rule #3: Nobody _names_ the bodies. They’re Voldemort now. He Who Shall Not Be Rug.”

*8:35 AM:* Lena’s phone rang. Unknown number.

She answered it on speaker because she hated herself. “Hello?”

“Lena?” A man’s voice. Familiar. Smug. _Alive_. “It’s Derek.”

The room froze.

Becca screamed. Silas dropped his coffee. The mug shattered. Like their alibis.

“Derek,” Lena said. “You’re dead.”

“Am I?” Derek laughed. “Or did you three geniuses dump two random guys from my BDSM dungeon in the reservoir?”

Silence.

“…You have a BDSM dungeon?” Silas asked.

“Derek, you absolute psychopath,” Becca yelled. “I _stabbed_ you!”

“You stabbed Chad. He was wearing my face.”

“You _what_?”

“Prosthetic mask. It’s a thing. He’s into it. Was into it. Anyway, I need my AirPods back. And my rug. And I need you to stop telling people I’m dead. It’s bad for business.”

Lena looked at Silas. Silas looked at Becca. Becca looked at her sash.

“So,” Lena said slowly, “the bodies in the reservoir. Not Derek. Not Brad.”

“Brad’s in Cabo,” Derek said. “Sent me a postcard. Said ‘Thanks for the kidney.’ Long story. Listen, I’m gonna need you to come to the warehouse. Alone. We’ll sort this out. And bring tacos. I’m starving.”

Click.

Three people. One apartment. Two missing corpses that weren’t the corpses they thought. One very alive, very pissed Derek.

Silas picked up a lemon. “I’m gonna need more tequila.”

Becca sat down. “I think the baby just kicked. Or that was my soul leaving.”

Lena looked at Detective Chen’s card. Then at the door. Then at Silas, who was already zesting.

“Okay,” she said. “Newer rules. Rule #1: We’re not murderers. We’re idiots.”

“Rule #2: Derek’s alive, which is worse.”

“Rule #3…” She grabbed her keys. And the bloody stiletto. Just in case.

“Screw Rule #3,” Lena said. “Again.”

Outside, the unmarked car was still there. Officer Dunn was eating a donut. He waved.

Lena waved back.

She was definitely going to jail. But at least she’d have a good story. And tacos.

Probably.

---

*End of Chapter 3*

*Content warnings:* Impersonation, fraud, kidnapping implications, pregnancy, theft, BDSM references, existential dread, citrus.