She relents her grip on the knife.  She eases around the table, hearing a faint gushing sound.  Through peripheral vision, she sees the sink quite full of crimson blood—the neck cradled perfectly in the bevel.

She follows him outside, her legs wobbly.  He leans inside Bart’s Cadillac and pushes a button.  The trunk lid pops open.  Spread out along the bottom is a checkered blanket.  A small toolkit lies along the right side and two quarts of Mobil oil are set neatly along the left.

Dean lifts the blanket.