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Junior watched closely from the safety of the closet, making sure not to breathe too loud.
At first, she was concerned that any minor joint crack would reveal her location in Paul Ford’s walk-in closet. But that fear quickly subsided when Sienna Ford started piping music into the bathroom.
There was a moment of anxiety when Sienna stared at her bathroom vanity counter. Junior was sure that the woman had noticed the metal canister that had been placed just behind her husband’s Costco mega-sized bottle of mouthwash. But it quickly became clear that Sienna was intently studying her own body, not the items in front of her.
There was a second fearful moment when Sienna approached the closet. As she drew closer, Junior gripped the three-iron golf club that she’d found in the back of the closet. But Sienna veered left, going to her own closet and putting on a bathrobe over her bra and panties. Junior sighed quietly.
She became even more confident when Sienna turned on the water in the bathtub and jacked up the music. Now, no amount of joint cracking or heavy breathing would betray her position. In fact, she could probably walk right out and bash Sienna in the head without the woman ever realizing she was there.
And Sienna Ford would deserve it, just like the others did. Maybe she wasn’t as overtly objectionable as some of them were, but her relentless pressure on her ten-year-old daughter was just as insidious.
She might think that having the girl attend “art workshops” twice during the week and on weekends, not to mention thrice-weekly ballet lessons, wasn’t as bad as making her do math worksheets every night. But because of all the extra-curriculars, Candace missed tons of school and had fallen behind, necessitating the 8 p.m. tutoring sessions that usually lasted at least an hour. The poor thing rarely got to sleep before ten, far too late for a child her age. And it was having an impact.
Candace was a nasty piece of work, constantly mocking the size and grace of other girls in both ballet and school. Sienna either didn’t seem to know or care that her constant emphasis on her own body image had been subtly inculcated in her daughter, who refused to have snacks more caloric than jicama or celery while studying.
But like the children of the other women that Junior had excised, there was still hope for Candace. She was young enough that a drastic change in her life could make a difference. That was the twin goal of Junior’s efforts.
First, by cutting out the malignant mothers, who were slowly poisoning their children’s capacity for empathy and kindness, Junior offered the kids a path to redemption. Without the offending parent, they were far less likely to become vicious teens, capable of destroying another child’s life with relentless bullying. Nor would they grow into people like their mothers, cruel and hateful, passing on their vitriol to another generation.
Secondly, by ripping them away from the controlling bosoms of their mothers, these children would face a shocking, painful loss early in their lives. The hope was that the heartache they felt would heighten their ability to identify and ease that pain in others. And Junior had made a personal commitment to be there to help these kids through that difficult journey.
But for Candace Ford, the journey to decency could only begin with the sacrifice of her mother, just as it had for Lansing Langley, Samantha Reynolds, Olivia Hackett, and Rhett Sinclair. These children could still be saved, but only at a price.
As Junior watched Sienna Ford retreat to her bedroom, she couldn’t help but marvel once again at the deliciously poetic nature of these women’s demise. They had poisoned their children’s minds, and now they were quite literally being poisoned. The poetry was her brainchild, though the method wasn’t.
Junior still remembered when she’d first thought of the idea of using botulinum toxin as a poison. It was during her third month at the Ridgewood Psychiatric Care Facility for Young People. One of her fellow residents, a brilliant young man named Kenny Littrell, had mentioned a fantasy about using it in group discussion.
The therapist leading the group wasn’t excited about his comments, but Junior—or Danielle, as she let others there call her—was intrigued. She’d made Kenny—who was in the facility for repeatedly setting small fires at home and school—tell her everything he knew about the concept.
Junior was sad when he was released back into the wilds of society a couple of months later, apparently cured of his pyromania, but she never forgot what she’d learned from him. And when she went to college, she was still interested enough in the science behind the concept to make biochemistry her major.
Eventually, her fury over what was done to her in school faded and she decided move on, focusing her energy on educating kids who deserved better than she got. And that was great for a while. Her enthusiasm for becoming a teacher was a salve against the nightmares that invaded her sleep. Her excitement at helping an entire generation of kids meet their untapped potential temporarily muted the echoes of voices in her head, the ones telling her that she wasn’t good enough, pretty enough, smart enough—that her family would be happier if she was dead.
That was why she took the job as a tutor for these wealthy families—because the money would expedite her ability to get credentialed, pursue her master’s degree, and help kids in need. But she hadn’t been prepared for what she faced.
These weren’t just kids who needed help with subtraction or understanding prepositions. They were the scions of uber-rich, super-accomplished parents who expected their children— some barely in kindergarten—to attend Ivy League schools or the equivalent. They pushed these kids, demanding that Junior drill them ceaselessly, forcing them to give up playdates and sleepovers and any free time at all in order to maximize their potential for an impressive future.
Junior had been struggling with her role in this process for a while now. The guilt was exacerbated when she accepted payment to tutor some of these kids during what should have been their holiday breaks. But what finally made her crack was when seven-year-old Lansing Langley had joked that a kid in his class was such a “retard” that he’d be lucky to get into a trade school. A seven-year-old boy said that! Worse, Clarissa Langley had laughed at the comment, before realizing her error and correcting him.
“Don’t use that word,” she scolded. “If a teacher hears it, you could get suspended. Then you’ll be the retard in trade school.”
Junior remembered thinking that the woman must be making some kind of sick joke. But she’d meant it. Later that same night, Junior had gone to the home of Shane Willoughby to tutor her eight-year-old son, Braden. While they worked on his multiplication tables, she could hear Shane and a friend talking in the other room over wine. The friend, who she later learned was named Avery Sinclair, was talking about a girl in her son’s class, and how the girl forgot her line in the winter play.
“If I was that girl,” she said acidly, “I would have gone home and slit my wrists that very night. Frankly, if I thought I could get away with it, I would have whispered that very advice to her after the show. I mean, why draw out the suffering that she’s in for later in life, right? Just end it and save her parents the next ten years of public mortification.”
Something inside Junior shifted that night. She realized that helping these kids wasn’t enough. She could never teach them to change when their mothers were there, constantly pushing back, seeding them with evil intent. For it to be a fair fight, for these kids to have any kind of chance at a future, the offending element had to be removed. Once she came to that realization, everything else fell into place.
It was quite simple after that. She went home that evening and dived in, doing all kinds of research on how to most effectively concentrate gaseous botulinum toxin for maximum, rapid impact. It was amazing what one could do with a science background and access to the dark web. She studied how to use a timer-based, motion-activated canister to safely contain and then release the gas. Then she tested it.
Amazingly, with her background and a willingness to forego sleep, she had a working prototype in just weeks. When Lansing Langley mentioned at his tutoring session last week that he and his dad would be going to a Clippers game on Wednesday, Junior knew it was time. Clarissa would be home alone all afternoon and evening.
So at Lansing’s final tutoring session of the year on Monday, Junior had brought the canister. It hadn’t been hard to slip away and place it in Clarissa’s bedroom. Then, at the appropriate time, she had activated it. The experiment was a smashing success, at least according to the news. It worked again with Tabitha Reynolds. And then with Naomi Hackett.
Naomi had been a masterstroke, as well as the reason that Junior knew she wouldn’t be caught. Until late last week, she’d never even been to Naomi’s Playa Vista apartment. But she had a key, given to her by Naomi on the off chance that Olivia ever spent the night there and needed a tutoring session. It had never happened because Naomi would never deign to see her child during the week, much less bring her to her private getaway.
So Junior had gone to Playa Vista on a Saturday, when the community hosted a farmers’ market, which Naomi had told her she frequented religiously. Junior left her phone in her car so that it wouldn’t show her exact location. Then she’d waited out of sight, near Naomi’s apartment, until she left for the market. The rest was simple. Junior unlocked the front door, planted the canister, and left the apartment in less than thirty seconds.
Avery Sinclair had been harder. Junior didn’t yet have access to her home. But because the woman’s words about that poor girl who’d forgotten her line in the play resonated so deeply in her memory, she decided that she couldn’t wait.
That was why she had showed up at Sinclair’s house today, even though the woman hadn’t formally agreed to hire her as a tutor. And that was why she had made the reckless decision to sneak upstairs and hide the canister on Sinclair’s bookshelf.
Of course, that plan had turned to crap. But not without a stunning silver lining. When Junior had been forced to use that trophy to protect herself from Sinclair’s aggressive advance, she made an unexpected discovery.
While the poison gas canisters may have delivered poetic retribution, a sharp chunk of marble offered more immediate, visceral satisfaction. Until this afternoon, she had never gotten to personally see the impact of her efforts. She had to imagine them and check news reports for verification that they’d worked.
But watching Avery Sinclair’s head cave in under the weight of her multiple blows left no doubt. And perhaps more importantly, it felt amazing. The sight of that vile bitch’s blood pouring out of her skull gave her a thrill she’d never experienced before in her life. The feeling of being up close and personal as someone else’s life just...ended—of being the reason for it—was a rush she hadn’t known was possible. And she wanted it again.
That was why, even though she’d taken a cab here, she snuck into the Ford house through the backyard doggy door (the family dog had died six months ago, but the door hadn”t gone anywhere) and set up the canister on the counter in Sienna Ford’s bathroom, she felt like something was missing. And it was why, when she saw Paul Ford’s golf club in the corner of his closet, she knew that when it came down to it, she’d be using that as her weapon of choice.
She snapped out of her vengeful trance when Sienna returned to the bathroom. The tub was full, and the song had changed. “The Sweetest Taboo” was now playing. Junior smiled to herself. She suspected that her interpretation of what taboo was sweetest might differ from Sade’s.
Now all she had to do was decide: did she want to kill Sienna now, as she prepared to get into the tub, mistakenly thinking that she was about to have a relaxing afternoon? Or should she wait until Sienna was getting out, wet and vulnerable.
Either way, the woman would pay. And Junior would save another child’s future.