When she speaks, he manages to look up; past the bat, past her hand. Into her eyes, ink-black and full of an unsteadiness he should want to soothe away. There hadn't been any blood on either of the girls. They'd been the cleanest things inside that house. Alex, damp and naked, curled against the blue-lipped and stiffening form of her friend. It should be enough.

Why isn't it enough?

"I," he starts, then clears his throat. "I'll get a trash bag from the kitchen. We can strip the bed, too, put the sheets in. I'll take it down to the basement."