Rhonda Kay

Whitewash

The day Stella died, she hadn’t packed a travel bag. Didn’t think she’d need it, not today. Any other time, she would have brought makeup and a change of clothes. Now, when some poor sod found her sprawled on the floor with her hands still clutching her throat, she’d be wearing day-old underwear and a rumpled pantsuit, with melted makeup and legs covered in stubble. Nice. Just the way she’d always wanted to go out—dressed like a hairy bag lady with mascara smeared on her cheeks.