Clara came slowly to consciousness from what felt like a long way away. As her vision cleared and she found herself standing over the bed with bloodied hands still clasping the shard of mirror, her first instinct was to check the clock. Ten minutes had passed, which left her at least ten more before Dale might come knocking. Perhaps more. She looked back to the bed. The scene was horrific, that much was clear, but she did not feel horrified. She did not feel much of anything. The hard core of her being that had seen her through the worst of the last six years had been washed away. No, not washed. Burned. Incinerated by a fire that still burned within and left her feeling gutted, not warmed.

She could not think about the reason for that fire. Not now. If she stopped to think about it now she would fall to her knees and may never find the strength to stand again. Right now she had to decide what to do about the mess in the ten minutes she had left. The body she could probably dispose of. It was still mostly in one piece and could be tumbled out the window and dealt with when the night was deeper. Likely she could convince Dale that the man had left through the side door while he was busy at the bar. The blood was a problem. It had soaked the sheets and mattress, and was pooling on the floor.

There was nothing for it, really. She couldn’t stay here; didn’t want to, either. Luckily not all the clothes in the dresser were for the titillation of the clientele, and she was quickly dressed in trousers, a blouse and sturdy boots. She tore a strip from the one clean corner of the sheets to wrap the end of the shard of mirror that had until now been slicing into her fingers and the fleshy pad of her palm. and tucked it into her belt. The man’s wallet was in his pants on top of the dresser and she pocketed that too, before striding to the window and lowering herself into the night.