I was pacing with all the selfcontrol of a wind-up toy.

Ridiculous to be pacing. Pointless; unless I intended to burn calories. Or wear a hole through the hardwood floors of the rented house at which I momentarily resided.

I’d taken the job. Just as I’d taken countless identical jobs in the past. I'd thrived on this job, as I had thrived on those before. It had been a delight. Shakespeare had said, "Violent delights have violent ends." He had been right.

And now the job was done.

Done.

But I swore I could smell the decay and rot rising up from the wooden floorboards. Cursing myself, I rationalized that there could be no smell of decay or rot, as there was no body. Mr. Burrell was currently nothing more than a pile of ashes in an unduly expensive urn. No body, no smell, no cause for pacing. But rationality was no remedy.

I continued to pace. Past the fireplace, pivot. Past the fireplace, pivot. I hated waiting. I liked action. I liked having a job to do. "Idle hands are the Devil's workshop," and all that. I didn't believe in the Devil, but I did believe in keeping busy.

A knock sounded on the front door.

All pacing ceased. I stood. I listened. Perhaps I’d been mistaken. Perhaps the knock had been as imaginary as Mr. Burrell’s stench. Perhaps–

The knock sounded again:...