“No,” she says, with too much emphasis. “Although, just to put it out there, even if you were a serial killer, I would absolutely stick by you and sharpen your knives.” “How sweet.” “I’d also clean the blood off your bathroom floor,” she adds brightly. “I was reading this fascinating article the other day about how to use basic laundry detergents to do just that. You wouldn’t have to worry about leaving behind any evidence.” “Okay, wait.” I hold up a hand. “In this—frankly disturbing, highly unrealistic—scenario you’ve conjured out of nowhere, why am I murdering people in my bathroom?” “Well,
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