Chapter 9
Jiya
Rule one: never get personal.
And what was that, if not personal? Sharing a dryer, his jacket, the quiet space between us.
He’s the target. He’s the mission. But my focus is slipping, my resolve fraying at the edges.
The danger isn’t the killer standing in front of me. It’s the urge to lean closer, to forget the mission. That’s how you get killed.
Every alarm bell in my body screams, Abort. Reset. Walk away.
But isn’t this what I’ve been trying to achieve? Proximity. Opportunity. This is the opening I’ve been working toward for weeks.
I can’t trust these feelings. They’re irrelevant.
What matters is the mission. The justice.
“A drink sounds perfect,” I say. “Lead the way.”
Calloway lifts his camera bag and slings it over his shoulder. The same bag he hid under my bar counter during the robbery.
We step outside. The rain has softened to a gentle mist; the neon signs of the dive bar flicker across the street, casting alternating red and blue reflections in the puddles.
“You sure?” Calloway asks, nodding toward the bar. “It’s not exactly up to Penumbra standards.”
“Sometimes dive bars have the best drinks,” I say. “And the best stories.”
We cross the street and he holds the door open for me. I step into the dimly lit interior. The air smells of stale beer and cigarette smoke that clings to the wooden panels despite the smoking ban.
“What’s your poison?” he asks, pulling out a barstool for me.
My fingers twitch toward my bag. I have three actual poisons nestled inside.
I force a casual smile. “Whiskey,” I say, flattening my hands on the scarred wooden counter. “Neat.”
The bartender, a man with a face like crumpled origami and hands that have seen more bottles than most people see sunrises, slides our whiskeys across without a word.
“Cheers,” Calloway says, lifting his glass. “To unexpected laundry adventures.”
I clink my glass against his. The whiskey is harsh, like liquid sandpaper down my throat. Nothing like the premium spirits I serve at Penumbra.
“Good God, that’s terrible,” I sputter.
Calloway’s eyes water slightly. “I think I just drank paint thinner.”
We both laugh, and the tension between us shifts into something lighter.
The jukebox wheezes out “Sweet Caroline” while a group of men massacre the chorus.
“A far cry from your gallery openings,” I say.
“And definitely not Penumbra with its fourteen-dollar cocktails and customers who think they’re too good to sing along to Neil Diamond.” Calloway gestures around the bar. “This place is honest, at least.”
“Honestly sticky,” I reply, lifting my shoe from the tacky floor with an audible peeling sound.
His laugh is genuine.
“What made you want to become a photographer?” I ask, swirling the amber liquid in my glass.
“Legacy thing. My parents were artists too.”
“What kind of art?”
A shadow passes over his face, like light dimming behind frosted glass. His fingers tense around his whiskey.
“Mostly photography. Experimental stuff.” His tone flattens. “They loved dragging me through every gallery in the country. Left me hanging with their artist friends.”
There’s something in his voice. A tightness. The way his eyes fix on a point just over my shoulder instead of meeting my gaze.
I study his face in the dim bar light. The sharp cheekbones, the way his jaw tenses when he’s uncomfortable. Even brooding, he’s annoyingly gorgeous.
“Well,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re doing great for your old age. What are you, forty-five?”
He frowns, looking genuinely offended. “I’m only thirty-two. That’s not old.”
“Only thirty-two,” I repeat, laughing. “That’s like, ancient. I bet you remember when people actually developed film.”
“How old are you again?” he asks, narrowing his eyes playfully.
“Twenty-six.”
“Six years,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Six measly years and you’re calling me ancient.”
We order another round of the terrible whiskey, leaning against the bar. Our shoulders almost touch, but don’t. The space between us vibrates with possibility.
“The rain’s stopped,” Calloway says, glancing toward the window. “We can leave now.” But he doesn’t move, just swirls the last of his whiskey in his glass.
I don’t want the moment to end either.
“No rush.”
His eyes light up. “There’s this little antique shop about a block from here. Been meaning to check it out.” He hesitates. “I was thinking of heading there before it closes.”
“Can I come with you?” The words slip out before I can analyze them.
He smiles. “I’d like that.”
We settle our tab and step outside. The air smells fresh after the rain; the streets glisten under streetlights. As we walk, our shoulders brush, sending electric currents across my skin.
Sandwiched between a butcher shop and a bodega, the window display offers a chaotic preview: a tangle of lamps, record players, and strange figurines. A bell jingles overhead as we enter.
“Look at this place,” I whisper. “Like stepping into the past.”
Every surface overflows with history. Furniture creates precarious towers. Paintings lean against bookcases. Glass cases gleam, filled with tarnished jewelry and what looks like old dental equipment.
“Hello?” Calloway calls out.
“Browse around,” someone mumbles from the back room, their voice drifting between the cluttered aisles.
Calloway picks up what appears to be a taxidermied squirrel wearing a tiny top hat and monocle.
“Sir Acornus Maximus the Third,” he says in a posh British accent. “Renowned explorer and collector of fine nuts. Died tragically when his hot-air balloon was attacked by an eagle over the Swiss Alps.”
I laugh and play along. “I heard he was in exile after that scandal with the Duchess of Chestnuts.”
“Ah, yes, that infamous affair. The acorn necklace he gave her is still discussed in squirrel high society.”
We move through the shop, creating increasingly absurd backstories for the items we find.
“This,” I say, holding up a silver hand mirror, “belonged to the famous actress Vivian Darroway, who could not pass a reflective surface without checking that her beauty was still intact. Legend says she was the inspiration for the evil queen.”
Calloway lifts an ornate box filled with yellowed love letters tied with ribbon. “Letters from the forbidden romance between the lighthouse keeper’s daughter and the sea captain’s son. Their families were rivals after the Great Oyster Wars of 1887.”
“The Great Oyster Wars?”
“Very bloody. Many mollusk casualties.”
I pull a letter. “My dearest heart,” I read, “the moon tonight reminds me of your face—”
“Round and covered in craters?” Calloway says.
I swat his arm with the letter, both of us dissolving into laughter.
In a dusty corner, I discover a small silver music box. It’s beautiful, with engraved flowers circling its edges. I turn the tiny crank on the side. The melody is delicate and sweet, like remembering something beautiful you’d forgotten.
“It’s lovely,” I say, transfixed.
Calloway watches me with an expression I can’t quite read. “You like it?”
“I do. My grandmother had one similar. She’d play it for me before bed. I don’t know what happened to it, though.”
Calloway takes the music box from my hands. “Wait here.”
He disappears toward the back of the shop. I hear muffled voices, then silence. When he returns, he’s carrying a small brown paper bag.
“Here,” he says, handing it to me.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Inside is the music box, now wrapped in tissue paper.
“You bought this? For me?”
“It made you smile.” He shrugs, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “A genuine smile, not your bartender smile.”
I cradle the music box in my palms. Something warm blooms in my chest, something that has no place here.
The words catch in my throat. “Thank you. I love it.”
No one’s given me a present in... I can’t remember how long.
That feels weird. Men don’t give me presents. They take.
They are all grabby hands and sloppy kisses, their intentions clear from the first drink. They don’t notice my smile. They don’t wait.
Calloway buys me a gift. He sees my smile. He hasn’t tried to touch me once. The facts don’t align, and the contradiction is a knot in my stomach.
And then it clicks. This isn’t a deviation from the script; it’s a more sophisticated one. The master predator who doesn’t lunge. He waits. He creates the illusion of safety, of being seen, until the prey walks right into the cage.
Game on, Calloway.
“Now I need to find something for you,” I say, setting the music box in my bag.
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I want to.”
I wander through the cluttered aisles, my fingers trailing over dusty trinkets. What do you buy for the man you’re planning to kill? Something ironic? Something that would look poetic beside his corpse?
The thought makes my stomach turn.
I’m overthinking this. It’s just a gift, not a murder weapon. Just a normal exchange between two people who spent an afternoon together. The fact that one of us will be dead soon is irrelevant.
In a glass case near the register, something catches my eye.
A vintage loupe, the kind photographers and jewelers use.
It’s made of tarnished silver with a heavy glass lens, probably from a hundred years ago.
The craftsmanship is exquisite—tiny engravings circle the rim, and the handle fits in my palm when the shopkeeper lets me examine it.
“How much?” I ask.
The shopkeeper quotes a price that makes me blink, but I nod anyway.
When I return to Calloway, I hide the small package behind my back.
“Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”
He raises an eyebrow but complies. His hand is steady, palm up, waiting. I place the loupe in his palm.
“Okay, open.”
He examines the loupe with obvious appreciation, turning it over and holding it up to his eye.
“This is incredible,” he says, his voice soft with wonder.
“For finding the beauty in the details,” I tell him.
Calloway holds the loupe up, but instead of examining some antique, he points it at me.
“I don’t need it to see the beauty,” he says, lowering the loupe.
Heat spreads across my face. How is it possible that this man—this killer—can make me blush like a teenager?
We leave the antique shop together, my new music box tucked in my bag.
I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time. Lightness. For hours, I forgot who I am, who he is, and why we’re here.
I forgot my mission again.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. How could I have wasted so much time playing make-believe with Calloway? Getting distracted by his charm, his stories, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs?
This isn’t me. I’m not some love-struck girl who loses focus because a handsome man buys her a gift. I don’t do feelings.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Calloway asks as we walk toward the T station.
I look up at him, letting the silence stretch before I make my move. “Maybe we could go somewhere more...private?”
He looks flustered, running a hand through his hair. “Wow. Um. I’d love to, but I’m swamped.” He offers a weak, apologetic smile. “Seriously. Rain check?”
Rejection. Apology. Excuse. The variables don’t compute with the profile. Most men are a simple equation. He is not. This requires an alternative approach.
“Sure. Rain check.” I keep my voice casual despite the disappointment.
We reach the station entrance. He’s going north; I’m going south. The perfect time to part ways.
“I had fun today, Jiya.” He steps closer, and a low, coiling heat starts in my stomach.
“Me too.”
His hand comes up, not to brush away hair, but to cup my jaw. His thumb strokes the sensitive skin just below my ear, a slow, deliberate circle that sends a shiver down my spine. My breath hitches. This is it. The moment the air has been crackling toward all afternoon.
My head tilts back, an invitation. My own lips part on a soft, unvoiced sigh, already warm, already waiting. I watch his eyes darken, his focus narrowing on my mouth. He leans in, and the world shrinks to the last inch of air between us, charged and heavy with the promise of his touch.
“Good night, Jiya,” he whispers, his voice thick.
He releases me and steps back in one fluid motion. The heat in my stomach turns into a sharp, angry knot.
“See you around,” he calls, descending into the station.
I stand there, my body humming with a current that has nowhere to go, my lips burning with the ghost of a kiss he refused to give.
See you around? What the hell was that?
I press my fingers to my lips.
“Fuck,” I whisper to the space where he stood.
My hand finds the vial in my bag, the cool glass a welcome antidote to the heat in my blood. This is my world. This is my control.
Calloway needs to die. Soon.
He wants to play games? Fine. But I’m done playing. The seduction was a courtesy, a piece of theater. Now, the curtain falls. I don’t need to get him into bed to kill him. There are far more efficient and far less pleasant ways.