Find new clothes.
There’s a fluffy pink bathrobe on the back of the door. It’s probably your host’s, but it’s probably less alarming for her to see you in this than in clothes covered in blood. You don the robe and your shades and go looking for laundry facilities.
Your host is hovering outside the bathroom door. “Are you the one who killed it?”
“‘It’ being the zombie so brain-damaged it didn’t know it was supposed to stop when I cut its head off? Probably.”
She’s coming at you and you nearly take her hand off before you realize it’s for a hug.