Page 12 of Mine

The small chunk of brain went into the formaldehyde bath. I took Bob’s body and shoved it down into the incinerator, the surgical drapes going right in after him. You might think the smell of burning human flesh is bad, but really the plastic sheeting smells much worse. I lit a vanilla-scented candle and went back to work on my trophy.

The brain tissue was set, and I took it out of the formaldehyde with gloved hands. The next step was tricky. I put the tissue in a acetone bath and stuck it in the freezer. The acetone would suck out the organic tissue and replace it with acetone. This would take a while, but I had other things to do.

Like cleaning up the blood.

The song playing on the stereo transitioned to a faster beat, and I moved to the rhythm of the music as I got the brand-new mop out of the closet. Bleach and water and a nice mopping. The smell of the bleach mixed with the vanilla bean. Sterile, but homey. Just the way I liked it. The mop smeared the blood over the white tile, then soaked it up. Three passes with a new bucket each time, and the tile grout was pristine.

Four hours to go.

I took the brain tissue out of the acetone bath. It was frozen, the crinkles in the brain fixed eternally in the position it had been in when Bob had died. This was the last step. I transferred it into another tub, this one filled with epoxy resin. It was the same stuff that you would put on your hardwood floors, if you were as wealthy as my victims. The acetone took the place of the brain, and the epoxy resin would take the place of the acetone. And when it was all done, we’d have a nice plastic copy of the brain. Well, part of the brain. The important part. Francis Crick, the man who helped discover DNA, said that the claustrum was like “a conductor coordinating a group of players in the orchestra.” I liked that.

I liked it so much, I had collected seventy-two of them.

Sara

The man shut the privacy window between us and the driver. He pulled out the drugstore bag and gave it to me. Blue contact lenses.

“Put these in,” he said. I did as he asked. My heart raced. One thousand dollars? I blinked, the eye drops running down my cheeks. The windows were tinted. Was this a sex thing? I didn’t know if I could handle it if Roger had accidentally set me up with somebody who wanted to hire a prostitute.

“Fix your makeup,” the man said, handing me a mirror. “And put all of your belongings in this bag.”

“Okay, but could you tell me please what’s going on here?” I asked. The car pulled away from the curb and began to drive down Van Ness Avenue.

“I’m sorry for all the secrecy,” the man said. “My name is Gary Steadhill.”

“I’m Sara Everett,” I said, holding my hand out for a handshake. He didn’t take it.

“No,” he said. “Today you’re not Sara.”

“I’m not?”

“Today you’re Mrs. Susan Steadhill.”

I blinked hard. The man was looking at me cautiously, waiting to see what I would say.

“So, is this some kind of sexual role play?” I asked. “Because I was told—”

“No, no, nothing like that,” the man said.

“Then what?”

The man leaned back in his seat and exhaled.

“You’ve heard of my name before?”

“Gary Steadhill? Sorry, no. Are you with Paramount?”

“I’m a businessman.”

“Oh.Oh.” The name flashed through my mind, this time in large bolded caps. “Steadhill Tech. That’s your company?”

“That’s right.” He smirked proudly. “See, you have heard my name.”

“So are you getting into the movie business?”

“No. That’s not what this is. Here is the—ah—the contract,” he said, pulling out a sheet of paper. “Before I say anything more, I’d like you to agree to the terms of secrecy. You can’t let anybody know about this role.”

Gary took out his wallet and began counting out crisp hundred dollar bills. I skimmed the contract and signed my name at the bottom.

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