Free The Guilty One by Sophie Littlefield

died . . . the one Jeff had when they were dating. But the stains on this one were too large, too dark. She blinked and turned away, focusing her gaze on the wall. Plaster and lath, she made herself think, a purposeful distraction. In surprisingly good shape . Her gaze traveled down: scratched, dark-stained wood floors, a few dust bunnies, nothing terrible there. Finally, she forced herself to look at the bed again. The comforter was covered in pastel swirls, a pattern from the eighties, synthetic and pilled. An edge had unraveled, the batting leaking. A sour odor rose from the sheets.
    â€œThere’s somewhere to dispose of the old?” Maris asked, her voice formal and unnatural.
    â€œI’ll call someone. Whatever you put out on the curb, I can have it picked up in the morning.”
    â€œAll of that goes too.” She pointed at the mound of linens, the pillow coming out of its case, as stained as the mattress.
    â€œYeah, I know,” Norris sighed, as though they had already agreed. “I have an extra fan, probably fit that window.”
    â€œWhat was this, anyway?” Maris asked. “The laundry room? Pantry?”
    â€œYeah.”
    It wasn’t an answer, but she didn’t press. All that was left was the bathroom. She went in first, expecting a filthier version of Pet’s, but when she turned on the light, she got the first nice surprise of the day.
    It was dirty, of course. Along the baseboards, the floor was covered in a brown film embedded with dust fibers; a mildewed plastic shower curtain hung from only half its rings, the rest torn. The toilet seat was pink faux-marble. But the bathroom was large, the old tub was in good shape, framed in an arched opening. There was beautiful octagonal black-and-white tile on the floor; the walls were accented with a row of pink tiles on point, the grout fairly clean. The overhead fixture was milk glass and the medicine cabinet’s mirror was etched in a wheat pattern. Built-in shelves held only a razor, a flattened tube of Crest, an empty bottle of Advil on its side—there was room for everything Maris had ever kept in their bathroom at home.
    â€œAll right,” she said briskly. “I’ll take it. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to get the mattress taken care of now.”
    Norris returned moments later with a box of black plastic lawn and leaf bags. “You can have these,” he said, handing the box to her like a gift. “Trash pickup’s not until Monday, but whatever you can put out tonight, my guy will haul it off.”
    Maris was glad Norris didn’t offer to help her clean. She didn’t want help. She stuffed the comforter into a bag while he pulled off the sheets, trying not to think about her hands touching the fabric. A cloud of dust lifted into the air. Maris imagined the tiny motes, the furred mounds under the bed—dead skin, whiskers, pubic hairs, who knew what else—and fought off a faint wave of nausea. She picked up the pillow by a corner and dropped it into the bag, then tied the top tightly. A double knot.
    Norris stood with his own lumpy, half-filled bag in hand. He had lost momentum. “I’ll take this end,” Maris said, finding the plastic handles along the mattress.
    They made several trips, working in the awkwardly polite way of people who don’t know each other well. With your own husband, you anticipate his moves—some people fold sheets together multiple times, some want the other person to meet them, an origami dance. “To your left a little,” Maris said.
    â€œI think we’ll have to turn it sideways,” Norris replied.
    After the third trip, the trash bags sat on top of the mattress and box spring on the sidewalk. In the front of the house, a single light burned through Pet’s windows. She’d closed the curtains before she left for work, so Maris saw only the haloed glow through the bright fabric.
    Norris opened