Free Quick Fix by Linda Grimes

wanted to scrub that phone number off my arm so I could quit adapting it away.
    “Great. Can you take care of Molly while you’re at it? She could use a little freshening up herself.”
    “You want me to take a bath with an ape?”
    “Well, I can’t do it. I’m her brother. It wouldn’t be seemly.”
    “It’s not like you’d have to be naked to give her a bath. I’m sure she won’t be traumatized.”
    “Look at her.” Billy gestured broadly, his arm following his sister. Molly was running around the condo, jumping up onto every available surface, climbing the stairs to the loft, and swinging from the railing. The longer she was in orangutan form, the more apelike she was becoming. “Do you think she could take a nice, calm bath without soaking whoever is with her? At least you’ll already be naked. You can dry off more easily afterward. Besides, it’ll save water. Sharing baths is the green thing to do.”
    I set my face. No way was I sharing my bubble time with a hairy little creature, even if she was my cousin.
    “Come on, cuz. Please? I’ll cook dinner for us if you do.” His eyes were beseeching.
    “Oh, geez. You are going to owe me big-time, pal. Come on, Molly. Bath time.”
    “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. When this is all over, I’ll give you a bath.” He flashed his dimples and headed for the kitchen.
    The bath with Molly turned out to be a lot more fun than I thought it would be. We used loads of bubble bath (I did not let myself question why a full-grown man would have such a large assortment of sweet-smelling bath products on hand—I knew I probably wouldn’t like the answer) and turned the jets on low to keep the froth lively. Molly decorated first herself, then me, giving us puffy white hair and beards. We squished masses of iridescence through our cupped fingers, making bubble volcanoes that shot out of the tub. I figured if Billy was going to blame the mess on Molly, we might as well make the most of it.
    When we were done, I pulled two large, plush bath sheets from the linen cupboard (the ones already hanging on the heated towel bar were soaked, for some strange reason) and wrapped us in them. Molly looked adorable peeking out from between the folds, with only her wise eyes and snub nose showing. I hugged her close, rubbing her back briskly.
    “What do you say, Molls—shall we go for the full treatment?”
    Billy’s blow-dryer had three settings: low, high, and hurricane. I did Molly first, leaving her soft and fluffy, with orange hair punked out on the top of her head. She loved the warm air blowing over her and twirled wildly with arms extended skyward, like a ballerina on crack.
    I was applauding one of her more expansive pirouettes when a bang! interrupted playtime, making me jump. Either a car had just backfired in Billy’s living room or somebody had fired a gun. I turned off the dryer and parked Molly on the toilet (lid down, of course), told her to stay put, and edged the door open.
    The living room was empty. I couldn’t see into the kitchen from where I was, so I crept out, gingerly shutting the door behind me. I didn’t need a diminutive fur person playing Watson to my Sherlock.
    Something—instinct, a sixth sense, whatever—kept me from calling out to Billy. Instead, I padded toward the kitchen, ducking to stay out of the line of sight until I was safely behind the breakfast bar. When I peeked around it, the first thing that oozed into my field of vision was blood, garnet black against the dark floor.
    I stood at once and rushed into the area screaming, “Billy!”
    But it was a woman laid out against the opposite side of the bar, one hand clinging to the handle of the cutlery drawer. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Flat, leather sandals showed off her pedicure. As I stared in shocked horror, her eyelids fluttered open and her lips formed the word “help.”
    Galvanized, I grabbed a dish towel off the counter and pressed it to the expanding blood spot