Page 40 of Killer Clone

From upstairs came the sound of Hagen’s shower as he got ready for their double date.

Stella prodded the bit of dried egg with a fork. It wasn’t coming off.

Her fish tank stood on the counter beside the window. Her goldfish drifted up the tank, his mouth opening and closing as though he had something to say.

“What do you think, Scoot? Scrape or load?”

The fish turned tail and fled to hide under the bridge in the corner of the tank.

“Load it, you say? Yeah, I agree.”

She dropped the plate into the lower rack, slammed the door, and ran a cycle. What Hagen didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Upstairs, Hagen was still showering. A scent of his expensive tea tree oil shampoo leaked through the door. His aftershave would follow soon, that strange mix of cloves and cinnamon and nutmeg he thought so manly and irresistible.

He wasn’t completely wrong.

She opened the closet. Hagen had been able to spare less than half the space of one of his two wardrobes. His jackets and pants spread across the rack, crowding her small selection of skirts, her three dresses—one of which she hadn’t worn since her sophomore year at college—and her ten blouses.

Hagen didn’t just own more clothes than her, they were also better quality. His suits were fitted by his father’s tailor. She picked up her stuff from chain stores, grabbing anything from the rack that didn’t look terrible.

Stella had never understood how shopping could be therapy. For her, shopping was an activity that could make her need therapy.

She ran a finger over the shoulders of his jackets, stroked the fold of his cotton shirts arranged by tone from dark to light, and opened his tie drawer. Each was as carefully rolled as a pastry.

There was something compulsive but weirdly satisfying about pulling open the drawer and seeing all those patterns so neatly arranged. Twenty ties filled the five-by-four drawer grids, and Stella had a sneaking suspicion Hagen had thrown out some old ties to ensure he had the exact number to match the space available.

She hadn’t even known he wore ties. She’d assumed he did, but yesterday morning was the first time she’d ever seen him pick one out and put it on. The thought frightened her. Maybe he had more secrets waiting to be discovered.

Perhaps—and she shuddered at the idea—he sometimes wore suspenders instead of a belt. Or a bow tie. He couldn’t possibly own an ascot, could he?

The water in the bathroom stopped. Hagen’s whistling grew louder, though not more tuneful. Stella pulled out a tie decorated with little yellow butterflies. It must’ve been a gift from one of his sisters, a Christmas joke for the guy who spent too much time in front of his mirror. There was no way Hagen would’ve chosen that for himself.

“Hey, Hagen. I’ve picked you out a tie to wear tonight.”

He called to her through the door. “I think I’ll go tieless. More casual. But whatever you choose, that’s what I’ll wear for work tomorrow.”

Stella smiled. Maybe she could find one with teddy bears.

“You nearly ready?”

Stella grabbed a long, figure-hugging knitted dress—one she’d owned since college—and threw it onto the bed. As she changed, she shouted through the bathroom door. “So what did you learn from the victim’s uncle?”

The whistling stopped. “Not much. He was orphaned when he was young. His uncle raised him. He was insular, had few friends. But he went to church, and he had a pretty good job working as a mortician. People will always need morticians.”

“Don’t we know it.”

Stella pulled on the dress. It still fit. Maybe she hadn’t changed that much. Standing in front of the mirror behind the closet door, she tugged the roll-neck collar beneath her chin and dragged the dress down tighter.

The maroon color had faded a little, but it was good enough. She closed the closet door. “He sounds pretty similar to the first victim. Friendless. Isolated. Online too much.”

They were supposed to be getting ready for dinner, to meet friends and talk about…something else. Anything but work.

And yet here they were, talking work. Her father had been much better at keeping his two worlds separate, and Stella assumed her mother having a different career helped.

The bathroom door opened, bringing a cloud of steam and the scent of Floris Santal. Hagen’s wet hair was slicked back, his towel wrapped around his waist, his muscular chest bare.

He stopped when he saw her and ran his gaze along her dress.

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