“That would be a big coincidence.”

“Faith?” Milo says, with a warning tone.

She ignores him. “If I were you,” Faith says, “I’d change it.”

“Maybe I’ll change it to Lexi,” she says.

Milo and Faith exchange a look.

Before Milo can say, “Why Lexi?” Maybe says, “Come closer, but don’t scream.”

They do, and Maybe pops open the trunk.

There’s no reason to scream.

Nothing to see but plastic tarpaulin, which is everywhere. There’s so much tarp it’s bulging out of the trunk. Maybe grabs a corner piece and lifts it high enough for them to see Lexi’s face.

Lexi’s face?

Lexi’s. And she’s clearly not alive.

Milo and Faith don’t need proof. What they need is an explanation.

After looking around to see if anyone’s watching, Milo says, “I told you Byron Zass. Not Lexi Lynch.”

Maybe motions them to the other side of the trunk, lifts up another section of tarp.

“You asked, I delivered. Say hi to Byron.”

Byron’s past communicating. And again, Milo and Faith don’t bother to ask for proof. The fact that Byron is dead would be obvious to even the most casual observer. Nevertheless, Maybe says, “In case it crossed your mind he might be asleep, drugged, or playing possum, I will now demonstrate he’s 100% dead.”

She fishes a butane lighter from the trunk, clicks the flame on, and says, “Milo, run your finger over the flame to verify it’s hot.”

“I-I don’t require proof, Ms. Taylor.”

“I insist.”

Milo puts his hand above the flame a second, then pulls it away. “It’s quite hot.”

“Faith? Your turn.”

She puts her hand over the flame and confirms it’s hot.

Maybe says, “This is an authentic butane lighter. Not methane, or propane, which top out around—I’m going to give you round numbers here—2,700 and 3,000 degrees, respectively. Butane will hit temperatures as high as 3,600 degrees. Not that it matters much, since human flesh starts to burn at 140 degrees.”

She puts the flame to Byron’s cheek and roasts it for fifteen seconds, creating a plume of smoke with a vile stench.

She says, “If he were playing possum, he’d have twitched by now, don’t you think?”

Milo and Faith are unable to respond, since opening their mouths would be enough to induce vomiting. While Faith’s gagging, her eyes are rimmed with tears. “I can’t believe you killed Lexi. She was our friend.”

Maybe says, “Burning flesh smells a bit like pork in a frying pan, but the outer skin has a rancid odor, don’t you think?”

“Please stop!” Faith says, through gritted teeth. Both she and Milo have turned away. They’re covering their noses with their right hands.

“You’re convinced he and Lexi are dead?” Maybe says.

“I can’t speak for Faith,” Milo says, “but I was convinced the moment I saw there were no bodies attached to the heads.”

“Well, I didn’t want there to be any doubt. Hold out your hands.”

They do, and Maybe drops two objects into each of their hands.

“What’s this?” Milo says.

“Souvenirs. Lexi’s nipples for you, Byron’s testicles for Faith.”

Faith retches, and allows her souvenirs to fall to the ground. Milo inspects Lexi’s nipples, then sniffs them. The look of disgust he receives from Faith is worse than the one she gave Byron’s testicals.

Maybe closes the trunk and says, “You’re going to need iron-clad alibis. It’s best if you’re both out of town on the same night. In different cities.”

Faith says, “Assuming we give you the go-ahead, when would it happen?”

“Whoa,” Maybe says. “Assuming you give me the go-ahead?” She laughs.