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The father keeps a tube of lipstick on his nightstand. Lazur sees it on the rare occasions he is called upstairs, to carry the man’s briefcase or do his tie when the man is falling over drunk. Lazur always assumed it was a memento of the absent mother, until he saw how every trace of her was removed from the house, except for the subliminal rubbish in the basement.
Rich men are freaky. But he’s driven the man to secret and depraved gatherings, and never brought him back with makeup on. The lipstick feels wrong to look at. A sense of something black, congealed, and burnt—yet oozing with endless, leechlike intelligence. The walls must be flaking with toxic pigment. Cadmium red. Lazur holds his breath, and knots the tie.
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