You are just like chalk and cheese, their dinner party guests always said. Rachel and Mark laughed, and clutched each other’s hands underneath the table.
It was a decent observation. Mark was big and boisterous, wore check shirts and loud ties, and always had a second helping. Rachel’s collarbones poked over her lace shirt, and she never initiated a conversation unless forced to.
Yes, they were very different, and there was a lot more clutched hands under the table.
But nobody laughed when the police broke into their flat. Nobody laughed when they found a viscous dairy layer on Mark’s chair, the fabric infused with the reek of Camembert. Nobody laughed when they found the chalk outline in the kitchen, one inch thick, nothing more than the dusty outline of a shadow.
Nobody laughed then, and there weren’t any more dinner parties.