Dead Perfect

She couldn’t remember the last time she had been truly hungry. She rarely ate a full meal anymore. Doing so made her sick to her stomach and yet, for the first time in months, she was famished.

She was standing in the middle of the floor, her stomach growling, when there was a knock at the back door. She hesitated a moment before opening it.

A cute young man with curly brown hair stood at the door holding a large box of groceries.

“Miss Shannah?”

“Yes?”

“Where do you want this?”

She glanced at the cardboard box in his hand. “I’m not sure. I didn’t…”

“It was a phone order from Mr. Dark.”

“Oh.” Was that the stranger’s name? Mr. Dark? She took a step backward. “Just put it on the counter, I guess.”

The young man did as bidden. He handed her a receipt and a pen. “Just sign here.”

She signed the receipt and handed the slip of paper and the pen back to the young man. “I’m afraid I don’t have any cash for a tip.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, grinning. “Mr. Dark took care of it. Have a good day, ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

She closed the door, then went to look through the box. It held a jar of instant coffee, a half-gallon of milk, a box of assorted individual servings of cereal, a small box of sugar, a loaf of bread, lunch meat and cheese, eggs, bacon, a box of pancake mix, syrup, a jar of peanut butter, another of jelly, a six-pack of soda, butter, salt and pepper, a small jar of mayonnaise, mustard, and ketchup, as well as paper plates and a package of plastic knives, forks, and spoons, some plastic cups, and a toothbrush and toothpaste. At the bottom of the box she found two frying pans and a toaster.

Her stomach growled loudly as she stared at the bounty before her. With a shake of her head, she put everything away, then set about making French toast and bacon for breakfast.

Mr. Dark, indeed,she mused. She didn’t know if that was his real name or not, but it fit perfectly.

She carried her breakfast into the living room and sat on the sofa since there was no place to sit in the kitchen.

When she finished eating, she sat back, waiting for her stomach to cramp, for the food to come back up again, as it always did when she ate too much too fast. But nothing happened. Rising, she carried her dishes into the kitchen and put them in the sink. She would wash them later, she decided, for now she wanted to see the rest of the house.

The living room, done in shades of blue and gray, was roomy and comfortable, with a high-backed sofa, an overstuffed chair, a glass-topped coffee table, and a big screen plasma TV with surround sound. Heavy draperies covered the big picture window and the smaller windows located on either side of the front door.

The dining room was bare save for a large oil painting of a tall-masted ship adrift on a storm-tossed sea.

Continuing down the hallway, she looked in every room. There was a bathroom with a large shower, a marble sink, and a sunken tub. A large walk-in linen closet was located across from the bathroom. The bedroom next to the bathroom was decorated in shades of forest green and gold. The furniture was country oak. The walls were beige, all hung with large paintings—a stag in the midst of a sun-drenched meadow; a wolf posed on the edge of a craggy hill; a shepherd cradling a lamb to his chest; a herd of wild horses running across a moonlit prairie. He seemed to have a taste for art, she mused, moving on down the hallway. She was no expert, but all the paintings looked extremely expensive.

It was the last room that drew her inside. The walls on either side of the door were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves; heavy wine-red velvet drapes covered a large window in the third wall. An enormous desk stood in front of the fourth wall. It held a computer, a large LCD flat screen monitor, a cordless mouse and keyboard, a combination printer/scanner/copier, and nothing else. She was tempted to turn on the computer but something held her back.

The bookshelves held a wide variety of books, everything from encyclopedias to mysteries to romance novels. One shelf held thirteen paperback books by the same author—Eva Black.

Shannah had never read a romance novel in her life but the author’s name sounded vaguely familiar.

Another shelf held mysteries written by Claire Ebon. Still another shelf held several hardback contemporary novels written by Stella Raven.

Shannah frowned. Black, Ebon, Raven. Odd, that they all had last names so similar in meaning.

Odder still that her host’s name was Mr. Dark. She puzzled over that for several minutes, then shrugged. It was probably just a coincidence.

Leaving the computer room, she went upstairs to explore the second floor. She wasn’t surprised when she discovered that all the rooms except the one she had awakened in were empty. Bare floors, blank walls, all painted the same shade of off-white. Perhaps he had moved in recently, she thought. Maybe it was his first house. That would explain the lack of furniture, knick knacks, and the other odds and ends that people tended to collect when they had lived in the same house for a long time.

She should go home, she thought, before he came back from wherever he had gone. He hadn’t been happy to see her on his doorstep. She was certain he wouldn’t be happy to know she had been snooping around his house while he was away. She was surprised he had taken her in and let her spend the night.

Yes, she should go home, but not now. Feeling suddenly weary, she made her way back into the taupe bedroom and climbed up on the bed. Pulling the covers up to her chin, she closed her eyes. She was tired, so very, very tired. The doctors had warned her that she would feel that way when the end was near, though how they knew that was beyond her. They didn’t even know what was wrong with her. At first, they had thought she had some rare form of leukemia, then they’d thought it might be some sexually transmitted disease similar to AIDS, only she didn’t do drugs and she had never had sexual intercourse. Though the doctors couldn’t decide what was wrong with her, they had all agreed on one thing. She was dying, and she didn’t have much time left, perhaps six months. And now five of them were gone.

But she wouldn’t think of that, not now. She would just close her eyes for a few minutes and then she would call for a cab and go home.

He rose at dusk, his nostrils assailed by the faint, lingering odors of eggs and milk and bacon.

And over the stink of food he detected the tantalizing scent of the woman. So, she was still here. He had expected she would be long gone by now.

He moved through the house until he reached the bedroom, his senses quickening when he saw her lying in his bed, her hair spread across the white pillowcase like a splash of black ink.