[ No open windows. He remembers Kitty slicing one with her claws back during the poker game and the rest of the night is spent doing just that, slicing and cutting and stabbing the fluttering creepy crawlies and then searching them out once he's out of easy kills, with flashlights and toppled book piles and sheer tenacity. It takes time. Effort. By the time he finally gives up, his phone has twenty-one missed calls and there's still so much left to do so he fakes his best sudden onset of the common flu and calls in sick.
He wasn't the one to kill the girl, but he can't explain how she got there or why or what happened to her and so he's stuck scrubbing blood off the floor and scraping up remains, quickly depleting the storage of black garbage bags by filling them with whatever was in his bedroom. ]