Free The Euthanist by Alex Dolan

asked.
    “Not a lick.”
    This didn’t stop him from pecking out a few chimes while I rinsed off. The tuning made the piano sound like an antique toy. Leland’s playing didn’t help. At least his plunks told me how far he was from the shower stall, just like a cat with a bell collar.
    When I passed back through the room in a towel, he barely looked. “Don’t worry about getting dolled up. Just wear normal stuff. Helena will flip out if you look like you just stepped out of a Broadway musical.”
    “Your wish is my command.” I pulled some clothes from my closet and retreated to the bathroom.
    As much as my wrists stung back in Clayton, the soap made it worse. The skin around my left wrist had inflated, soft as a marshmallow. Where the metal had sliced through the skin, I dabbed rubbing alcohol and wrapped gauze from my medical kit. If a cop weren’t in my living room, I might have shrieked.
    Dry underwear never felt so good. While I slipped them on under my towel, Leland crossed the room and gawked at my bookshelves. Without a divider to duck behind, I was grateful he kept his back to me. “Lots of textbooks.”
    “I like to study.”
    “Ever think about medical school?”
    This felt like he was taunting me with hopes of a limitless future. In fact, I had considered medical school. But I answered, “I think about a lot of things.”
    He lost interest in the books and combed over my wall photos. “This your dad?”
    Hopping around on bare feet as I slid on corduroy pants, I was concentrating on minimizing the exposure of bare skin. I dropped my towel for a flash and wriggled into a knit top before he could catch a glimpse of nipple. Long sleeves covered the gauze. After the regular clothes, I added a second layer of loose-fitting scrubs while he stared at my father’s photograph, close enough to steam the glass.
    “He’s a good-looking guy. Tall like you, too.”
    In the photo I was six years old, sitting on my father’s lap. An orchestra surrounded us, brass viscera everywhere. It had been taken while he was recording a score for a blockbuster alien movie. My dad dressed like he was clamming at the beach, boat shoes with no socks, and a light cotton sweater. My smile jagged all over because of the baby teeth worming through my gums, and I was too lost in awe of my dad and the musicians to face the camera.
    Leland remarked, “You were a cute kid.” The way he said it implied, what happened ? “Who are the boys?” He’d moved on to another photo, a shot of me with a group from the firehouse.
    “Firemen.”
    “Good-looking guys. I guess firemen usually are. Any of these your boyfriend?”
    “No.” In truth, I’d dated two of them briefly. Mistakes, both times.
    “So, none of these guys knows how you spend your off-hours?”
    “Absolutely not.” I toweled my hair dry and skipped off this subject. “I’m done.”
    “You’re wearing scrubs.” Leland seemed surprised.
    “You wanted me to look like a nurse.”
    “I didn’t think you’d own scrubs.”
    “I have a whole closet full of clothing.”
    “It just doesn’t seem like something Kali would wear.”
    “She wears what she needs to wear. Let’s get going.”
    On the drive to Helena Mumm’s house, Leland and I rehearsed the plan some more. Occasionally he made eye contact to make sure I’d digested the details: how long to wait before I administered the first dose of thiopental (so he had enough time to be somewhere else with witnesses), the lot on The Embarcadero where he’d leave the rental car, specifics on where she didn’t like to be touched—for Helena, it was anywhere around the collarbone. Despite the peanut butter sandwiches and the hot shower, my blood sugar plunged. My kingdom for a candy bar . I squeezed the gauze around my left wrist so the pain would keep me alert.
    “You’ve really charted this out, haven’t you?”
    “I’m a planner. I get my Christmas shopping done by Halloween.” He added, “It’s my sister.