“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Marla said, setting her coffee cup on the counter, “but in my defense, I didn’t know he would surprise me like that.”

It was quite the jam they were in now. Her affair partner, Paul, sat across from her, occasionally glancing at the blood-splattered kitchen floor. Marla had yet to clean up, and there were streaks of blood on her dress, as well.

Paul considered the next move. He was now an accomplice to murder. Should he turn her in? Or should he bolt out the back door without looking back?

“We’ll have to find a place to bury the body,” he finally said. “The problem is, it’s eight o’clock in the morning. Be easier if it were nighttime right now.”

Marla took a slow sip of coffee. “You’re assuming we need to bury him.”

Paul blinked. “I’m sorry. What?”

She gestured vaguely toward the hallway, where the body lay wrapped in a shower curtain decorated with cheerful blue dolphins. “This is suburbia, Paul. Nobody buries anything. We repurpose. We compost. We join committees.”

Paul rubbed his face. He already had a meeting in thirty minutes, a budget review with a man who unironically said “circle back.” “Marla,” he said carefully, “there is a dead man in your house.”

“Yes,” she said. “And if we don’t handle this correctly, there will also be gossip. Which, frankly, is worse.”

He stared at her. He had always known Marla was decisive, one of the reasons he’d fallen for her, but this felt like decisiveness with a blade hidden inside it.

“You’re in shock,” he said.

“No,” she replied. “I was in shock when he jumped out from behind the pantry, screaming ‘SURPRISE’ while holding a fog machine he bought on clearance from Spirit Halloween. This is clarity.”

Paul tried to picture it. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to.

“So,” he said, “what’s the plan?”

Marla stood and began rinsing her cup, humming softly. “First, you relax. You’re making it obvious. Second, we clean the kitchen. Third …”

“Third is where the crime happens,” Paul interrupted.

“Third is where the solution happens,” she corrected. “Crime was earlier.”

She pulled open the fridge. Inside were neatly labeled containers: Quinoa—Weekday, Soup—Do Not Touch, Emergency Lasagna. She pushed them aside and retrieved a spiral-bound notebook.

“What’s that?” Paul asked.

“My contingency binder.”

He laughed once, sharply. “Your what?”

Marla flipped it open. Tabs. Color-coded. One read FIRE. Another FLOOD. Another, horrifyingly, UNEXPECTED DEATH (HOME).

Paul felt his knees weaken. “You planned for this?”

“I planned for possibilities,” she said. “Statistically, something like this was bound to happen eventually. Do you know how many people choke to death on birthday candles every year?”

“No.”

“Neither did I, until page twelve.”

She scanned the checklist. “Okay. Step one: establish narrative consistency.”

Paul frowned. “You sound like a podcast.”

“He was remodeling,” Marla continued. “DIY project gone wrong. Ladder. Head injury. Tragic but plausible.”

“He wasn’t remodeling.”

She looked up. “Paul. He owned three power tools that he didn’t know how to use.”

She handed him a pair of rubber gloves from under the sink. Pink and floral. “You’re going to move the ladder from the garage. Don’t drag it. Neighbors notice dragging.”

Paul hesitated. “Marla.”

“Yes?”

“If we do this,” he said, “this becomes … us.”

She smiled thinly. “Paul, us became a thing the minute you said you hated your wife’s cooking and asked for seconds of mine.”

He swallowed.

They worked quickly. The blood cleaned up easier than Paul expected, which unsettled him more than if it had been stubborn. Marla was efficient, calm, and almost cheerful. At one point, she apologized for the mess, like he was a guest who’d arrived too early for a dinner party.

By nine-thirty, the kitchen looked normal again.

“So,” he said. “What now?”

Marla checked her watch. “Now we wait.”

“For what?”

“The dog walker,” she said. “She arrives at ten. She’s observant but deeply uninterested in other people’s lives. Perfect witness.”

Paul stared at her. “Witness?”

Marla paused, then sighed. “Paul. Sweetheart. I didn’t ask you here to bury a body.”

He felt a cold bloom in his chest. “Then why …”

The doorbell rang.

Marla straightened her dress, dabbed concealer under her eyes, and practiced a gasp in the mirror by the door.

“Because,” she said softly, “someone has to ‘find’ him.”

She opened the door.

Ten minutes later, there were sirens. Hands on Paul’s shoulders, guiding him gently to a chair.

Marla cried convincingly. Paul was surprised at how convincingly he nodded when the police asked if he’d been working on the house with her husband that morning.

By noon, it was over. It was labeled an accident and a tragedy.

Paul sat alone at his desk later that afternoon, staring at an unread email. His phone buzzed.

Marla: Thank you for your help today.
Marla: I couldn’t have done it without you.
Marla: Coffee tomorrow?

Paul looked around the office. Phones rang, printers whined, and life continued as usual. He typed back.

Paul: I’ll surprise you.

Three dots appeared. Then stopped.

Paul smiled weakly and deleted the message.

The End