One sunny afternoon, a few weeks before the wedding, we’re lying on the couch, your head in my lap. The incident with the gardener is now a mere memory, one for the most part, we’ve put behind us. You seem to have accepted the notion that we have to be more careful here, now that we’ve settled in suburbia. It was a bitter pill to swallow for you, but choke it down you did, the knowledge that you can’t kill anytime things don’t go your way—you can’t murder someone anytime it strikes your fancy. I’m hopeful that I’ve sold you on the idea that we have to be meticulous about our kills here—otherwise, we’ll have to run, and then we’ll always be running.
Also, you’re feeling too bad these days for your old shenanigans anyway. In fact, you haven’t moved in hours it seems. I’m starting to worry a
