“Gosh, I have to stop getting blood all over these hardwood floors,” I thought to myself, noticing a small trail of blood trickling from the Hefty bag full of Sharon that I was pulling across my house. When I reached the door, slippery with sweat, I scanned the dawn to make sure no one was in view. I quickly jotted down a note reminding myself to bleach the floors later, and then I carried Sharon outside and secured her body in the trunk of my unremarkable, silver Volkswagen Jetta.