Chapter One
?
Cruelty is as cruelty does.
Azalea
There are so many ways to kill a man…yet it’d be unwise to look any of them up on my work computer.
Last night after I agreed to murder Malcolm, the man in the middle stepped forward, half-returning my bow as he introduced himself as Junction.
The minute pleasantries were out of the way, Junction went through mechanical reassurances that their mysterious organization was capable of protecting me.
He heavily implied that the media and the police were in their pocket, so they could very easily relocate me somewhere comfortable if I was caught.
Ideally, I don’t get caught.
But having some total strangers assure me that it’ll be fine if I do sure was…encouraging.
Needless to say, given that they’ve already failed in this mission numerous times, I’m not putting the greatest amount of faith in my new allies.
Currently, I’m planning to bide my time, analyze my options, and do everything in my power to keep from making a mess of things.
Because, according to Junction, acting independently might compromise my protection.
And no matter how flimsy I believe his promise of protection is, I can’t ignore the fact it’s insurance—better to have than to not.
So, for now, I wait on the burner phone Junction said he’d get to me by the end of the week, see what their plan is, and respond accordingly.
For now, it’s business as usual.
With minutes until lunch break starts, business as usual looks a lot like sitting here and doing nothing while I stare at the clock in the corner of my screen.
Moving even a minute too early will result in food poisoning, so I don’t dare constrict a muscle until the hour deigns to turn over.
The second before it can, Malcolm’s deep tenor draws my attention toward his office door, which lies directly opposite his brother Iverson’s.
My stomach dips as the scheduled start of my lunch break upends, suggesting that my death will be imminent, but I shove the sensation down into my toes and say, “Yes, sir?”
Ice gray eyes take me in as Malcolm braces a broad, ebony-clad shoulder against his door jamb. “Stand up,” he comments, tucking a hand in the pocket of his pressed black slacks.
Breath tightens in my lungs, because here we go again. Another power trip. Another attack on my peace. Another drop of proof in an ocean of overwhelming evidence that Malcolm Swallow doesn’t deserve to live.
Pushing my pristine white seat back, I rise.
“What’s my afternoon looking like?” he asks, stepping from the archway to glide toward my desk.
I ignore everything pinching nerves inside my body and remain flawlessly neutral. “You have a meeting to discuss construction of new hospitals in Central America after lunch, then your evening opens up to connect with share holders.”
He stops a foot from my wide, pure white desk. Daunting on his egotistical high, Malcolm murmurs, “Did I ask about my evening, little dove?”
Internally, I twitch. Externally, I say, “No, sir,” with all the frigidness of a glacier. In the past two years, I’ve learned that the trick to dealing with Malcolm is making absolutely certain not a single emotion rises.
Because when my emotions rise? They flood. They consume. They devour and destroy.
It’s been a problem I’ve struggled with my entire life. It impacts everything I am and everything I do. My character is too much for people. My tendencies are too insane. The rules that keep me and everyone around me safe push people away.
So I live alone. And stable. And emotionless. For the good of all.
It’s just better this way.
Most people give up on trying to convince me I’m wrong or need help. Most people are not Malcolm Swallow. And, as with most things in life, there always seems to be at least one unfortunate exception to every last rule.
Malcolm says, “Change it.”
“Change what, sir?”
“My evening. I’ll not tolerate having a schedule tell me what to do unprompted. When I’m ready to tackle whatever lies beyond my afternoon, I expect the agenda to be different.”
Ah. I see. Okay. No problem. I’ll just call up half a dozen shareholders on my lunch break and designate a new time for this meeting. It’ll only take me…the entire hour.
I take a deep, calming breath. “Understood, sir.”
Leaning over my desk, he places a finger on the tiny crystal heart I bring with me everywhere.
Not even an inch in diameter, the clear charm works as a talisman in my mind, protecting me from things I don’t know how to protect myself from.
It’s insipid. And I know that. But peace is terribly difficult for someone like me to find, so I treasure the fact I’ve found it in her.
Wicked, he moves her from her designated place all the way to the other side of my work station. “Also. As of yesterday, we’re planning to host a ball at Ivy’s home. You will be helping me handle much of the prepwork under Ivy’s guidance and direction.”
“A…ball?” My skin prickles, and I fight to keep my sanity as I stare at my crystal heart. Out of place. Wrong.
She doesn’t belong on that side of my desk. She never belongs on that side of my desk. Every day, I come in to work, I remove her from her specific pocket in my purse, and I place her perfectly in her spot on my desk.
Which is the exact opposite spot of where Malcolm’s put her.
Because it will never be where Malcolm’s put her.
“Eyes on me,” Malcolm states.
Nauseated, I drag my attention to the demon.
“Iverson wants a Flag Day ball.”
A…Flag Day…ball? Weak, I say, “Sir?”
“He’s got catering covered and the location will be the ballroom in his home, but you’re in charge of invitations, florals, seating, music, whatever else he needs. As he gets the tasks organized, he’ll relay further directions to you.”
Searching Malcolm’s eyes, I part my lips. “I’m…not sure I understand.”
Malice touches his gaze as cruel amusement sparks. “Don’t you?”
A frigid wash of nerves overwhelms me, and I blame them on my crystal heart being out of place.
Relaxed, Malcolm reiterates, “Ivy would like to host a ball on June 14th. We’ll be assisting him as well as attending. And, Azalea?”
I swallow. “Yes…sir?”
“You will not wear white.”
Dread rises, crashing against the shores of my chest, filling my lungs with water instead of air.
“Ivy wants his ball to be blue and gold. I’ll give you some time to consider which you’d prefer to wear.” Patting my desk, he turns back toward his office and lifts a hand. “That’s all. Enjoy your lunch break, little dove.”
The second Malcolm disappears, I clench my fists and seethe, unsure what’s worse. Him, his actions, that infernal nickname. It’s all horrific. Every part.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to deduce that my crystal heart matters to me, and after two years of working around me, it’s obvious I have issues with cleanliness. For sanity’s sake, he’s the one who approved my request to turn my work area into a bleached white oasis.
Dropping into my seat, I grab my crystal heart and put her back where she belongs.
Rage tightens my muscles as I stare at the tiny trinket. My fists clench against my thighs.
My tendons wind up, threatening to snap. It’s all wrong.
Still.
And he touched my desk, too.
If I don’t fix this somehow, something bad will happen.
Snatching my heart, I pull open my desk drawer and get a mango-and-hibiscus-scented Lysol wipe. Scrubbing feverishly, I do everything in my power to erase the sensation of gnawing, blatant wrongness. All the while, I replay the dreadful scene in my skull.
What does he mean I have to be at this Flag Day ball but I can’t wear white to it?
I only own white. He knows that.
I seldom touch other colors because they cling to my flesh in ways I can’t remove. My brain latches on to an idea that they’re invading my bloodstream, and it burns.
This demand is little more than another cruel game I never asked to join, because—last I checked—my work agreement never said endure relentless torment at your boss’ whim.
Fighting to control myself before the acidic feelings can overtake me, I remember something very, very important.
I’m plotting to kill him.
Before the end of the week, I’ll have a burner phone with instructions on how to end this torture once and for all.
If I don’t want to go to this ball, I have fifty-nine days to kill Malcolm.
Once he’s dead, and assuming I get away with it, I’ll only have to work for Iverson, who purely confronts me when it concerns work.
He wouldn’t force me to attend this ball of his.
He wouldn’t care if I were there or not.
And once I only have one boss who doesn’t care, my life will improve by a drastic margin.
I’ll find more peace. I won’t have to suffer while my brain blazes and my body heats and this hatred makes me vibrate down to my core.
Iverson doesn’t mess with me. Iverson doesn’t want to.
I barely exist to the younger Swallow brother.
With Iverson, my job here will be my job.
All business. Iverson doesn’t bother thinking up ways to get under my skin.
He doesn’t try to break me. Because even though Iverson might have the social presence of a cactus, cacti don’t lunge on top of you and try to scratch out your eyes.
Meanwhile, Malcolm’s a honey badger mixed with a panther.
He’s big, ornery, and ill-tempered, but he’ll still find the time to toy with his food.
Every day, he comes up with new methods to remind me he’s in control.
Every day, he treats me like something he owns.
Every day, he searches me for strings and pulls on my threads so he can watch me unravel—as though I wasn’t already falling apart.
I hate him.
I hate him, and I want him dead.
If he doesn’t want me to wear white, fine.
I’ll wear red, and I’ll dye it myself.
?
Me: Question: is brutal murder an option? I’d like him to suffer.
Junction: idlly u’ll b mor discret
Disappointment rampant, I snap the flip phone that was waiting in my mailbox when I got home today closed and place it on the corner of my kitchen island.
It took me ten minutes to type out that question using the number pad.
Ten minutes of flashbacks to an era I no longer possess the muscle memory for. Ten whole minutes.
And this is the response I get?
Scowling, I reposition the phone until it’s perfectly centered in the corner of the counter, then I huff and march to my fridge. “Thursday. Rice, marinated tofu, and veggies,” I murmur, reaching for the container labeled April 16.
On schedule, I remove my meals for tomorrow from the freezer so they can begin defrosting safely in the sanitary environment of the fridge, then I get a pan to reheat my food for tonight.
Once the rice is steaming and my food thermometer indicates it’s the correct temperature no matter where I stab it, I sit on the centermost plush white stool of the three perfectly positioned at my island.
Pushing my hair back, I use a pair of ivory chopsticks to bring a crispy tofu to my lips.
There, I hesitate.
Morsel inches from my mouth, I stall as thoughts rise in my brain.
Is that a spec of pepper or a bug? There’s no way there would be mold on this, right? What if I set my chopsticks on the counter, and now there’s Lysol in my food?
I made it. I know I made it. I made it, and I am innately careful whenever I’m making food…but…
Did I put it in the freezer immediately after it was cooled down? Yes, I did. I absolutely did. And I timed the cooling period, just like I always do.
It’s vegan.
No animal muscles or fat or…parasites.
I cleaned the veggies like I always do, inspecting every part for dirt. I cut them small to make sure every centimeter throughout looked normal and right.
It is safe.
It has to be safe.
But, more than that, I need to eat. Not eating would kill me slowly, and if it’s between slow or fast, I’ll take fast.
So I put the tofu in my mouth, force myself to chew, and ignore the way my heart pounds when I swallow. It’s painful, and pricks of fear run up and down my arms.
I need to eat. I know I need to eat. I just need to stop thinking about eating and get it over with. I need a distraction, but nothing pulls my brain away from its route of self-destruction.
The sushi rice isn’t too sticky. I washed it thoroughly for five straight minutes, inspecting every grain, before I cooked it. It’s perfect. It’s fine. It is safe.
Forcing down three more bites, I reach into my pocket with my free hand and turn over my crystal heart, begging it to make things easier.
Ease doesn’t come. Instead, different thoughts plague me.
Malcolm touched my crystal heart today.
My fingers snap out of my pocket and tremble.
After he touched her, I washed her. I washed her with my usual Lysol wipes that I use to clean everything. They are good enough for everything.
She’s safe again. She has to be.
But my brain refuses to relent, reminding me that killing ninety-nine point nine percent of germs isn’t one hundred percent.
Dropping my chopsticks in my barely touched bowl, I sink in on myself.
“So…” I whisper, “…today’s a hard day, huh?”
My shoulders slump, because of course it is.
I agreed to kill someone last night, and I saw that someone today, and I had zero regrets or intrusive thoughts about my decision.
It’s uncomfortable to think that my brain—which is normally fixated on rules and justice and all things good and pure and right—doesn’t have a single corrosive thing to say about my decision to murder Malcolm Swallow.
Every part of me believes he deserves to die.
Justice is a world without him.
It would be wrong and bad of me not to kill him.
I believe that.
I believe some people don’t have a single good thing in them. Some people cause suffering wherever they go. Some people see someone struggling and smile before crushing them further beneath the sole of their boot.
Malcolm Swallow is the kind of person who revels in causing pain. He is evil, and he is wrong.
So even though it’s a bit uncomfortable to know that my otherwise overactive, self-effacing mind is silent on this topic, at least I know I must be doing the right thing.
No matter how ugly this right thing is, one thing is sure.
Malcolm Swallow must die.