Chapter One
“Felix Foster.”
I whisper his name into the stale air of my car; eyes fixed on the man across the street.
He’s performing for the cameras again, navy suit stitched so tight it looks like a second skin, that practiced PR smile stretched wide.
He lifts an energy drink with the smugness of a man convinced he’s holding champagne at a gala.
Around him, athletes bred in labs: bodies built, heads hollow. Correction: elite, full-of-shit, full-of-drugs athletes.
He moves through the world as if oxygen waits for his command, as if God reports to his calendar. He sells the image of untouchable, but he isn’t. He won’t be easy, but I knew that already. Still, I won’t quit, not until all of them get what they deserve, but tonight I watch and learn.
Your day is coming, you polished bastard.
I turn the key, and the engine stutters, rattles alive, groaning like an old man. My hands tighten around the wheel, nails catching the chipped polish I never got around to fixing.
His face flashes behind my eyes, and bile rises. She hasn’t opened her curtains in months. The bruises are gone but the terror isn’t. That Ivy League face he carries? I’m erasing it soon.
Streets blur, and pale rows of nothing pass in slow succession. I’ve lived in this city for two years in a little studio apartment with one window and a dozen candles whose scent can be felt on the entire floor.
The car squeals as I pull into the lot, and Russ yells from his window, with no shirt, as usual. I don’t even know if he owns any. “You should sell that thing!”
“It’s my baby,” I say, locking the door. “She’s not going anywhere.”
“It’s pink,” he grumbles. “Who would want a flashy color car in a city like this?”
I pat the hood. “She’s special, like me.”
He disappears, muttering about therapy, but I don’t care; I do need therapy, but not because of my damn car.
I take the stairs slowly, making sure whoever’s home hears me coming and going, so that everyone can recognize the way I walk, because a routine and alibis are your best friends when you are thinking about committing a crime.
The apartment is small, clean, cozy, and perfect to show off how sweet and caring I am. A bed smothered in pillows, fairy-light vines drooping along the walls. Cute. Feminine. Disarming.
Exactly the kind of place nobody would suspect hides a monster.
My bed is shoved under the window with so many pillows I barely fit there, and there’s a TV on the wall that I barely use unless I’m playing my Switch.
I only own one game: Minecraft, and I love it because it’s a world I can control, piece by piece with no surprises, where monsters follow the rules, where Creepers hiss before they blow and Zombies groan.
You see them and you end them; it’s simple, it’s how it was supposed to be in real life too, but the real monsters in our world wear suits, sit on boards, and host fundraisers with smiles that look innocent and caring.
What a joke!
I need to calm my nerves, so I throw water in a pot, making noodles tonight. Again. It’s my comfort food—noodles, a boiled egg, maybe some cheese if I’m feeling fancy—it helps me to relax and to plan my next move.
When the noodles are soft enough, I take the bowl to the bed.
There’s a little table with two benches that I bought thinking I would have some dinners here with friends and colleagues from my job.
Although I work from home, I do have one friend who, like me, enjoys eating more on the bed than on the damn table.
I place the bowl on the nightstand, reaching behind the print of a cat sleeping on a porch on the wall, and pull out my pink notebook with no label, just plans written in code.
I flip it open and lean back into the pillows.
The fake vines hanging around the bed shift with the fan; they give the illusion of being a forest. Unfortunately, the real ones die as soon as I get them home.
It’s either too much water, or too little, or I breathe funny around them.
I don’t even know, but I’m not getting any more.
I look at the time, and my hands shake, not from fear…
Well, maybe it’s a bit of fear mixed with anticipation.
No amount of notes in my pink book can prepare me for the first time blood will actually be on my hands.
I take a sip from the bourbon bottle Russ gave me when I moved in; it burns going down.
I feel like my throat is closing, and it makes me cough out a lung but does nothing to calm me.
I change into my tracksuit with my hoodie up and backpack, take one final deep breath, and run down the stairs like I do every Thursday and Sunday.
Always the same loop, the same shops, and the same faces.
I run slow enough to be seen. The bodega clerk nods, and the dog walker forgets my name again but knows exactly what I look like. It’s more than enough.
I build my alibis as I run through the streets.
My heart is beating so fast I can barely breathe.
All this running for almost two years has kept me in great shape, that’s for sure, and by the time I reach the docks, the night’s turned cold, the salt stings the air, and it still smells like burnt wood and fabric.
No one comes here anymore, not since this place burned down eight months ago, so now I use it as my little hideout since part of the building still stands.
Second building on the right, second floor, and the third door. I know every step in the dark, every creak. I installed the lock myself on the door and paid in cash at some little store outside of town.
I step inside and flick on the lamp; the place is quiet, with dust in the corners and some ashes resting near the windows.
I strip off the hoodie and trade it for black jeans, a fitted top, combat boots, and my leather jacket.
My hair goes up tight and high, the silver wig slipping over it like a mask.
The makeup does the rest, erasing me, hiding the girl underneath.
My reflection on the cracked mirror shows the new me, the person who is getting ready for revenge.
Heading to my second car, my hands shake; they are sweaty, and I keep cleaning them on my jacket, one final deep breath before I enter my second car, which happens to be even older than my pink one, a black Ford Focus, beat to hell but loyal.
The plates came from a man who called himself Luigi, smelled like vodka, didn’t ask questions, and accepted cash.
He was so high I doubt he can even remember selling them, let alone to whom.
The streets are alive, lights flicking as I drive by, everyone enjoying the night while I fight the urge to vomit.
I park at the club’s back alley, which is always half-lit, half-forgotten; the staff uses it once their shift is done. It's a safe way to leave, avoiding the drunk clients in the front door, and it helps me to leave without being noticed.
The line wraps around the block. I lift my chin, set my shoulders, and smile, all flirt and sweetness, and the bouncer grins when he sees me. He’s a big guy with wandering eyes, gives me a once-over, then waves me through.
“Come find me for a drink later,” he says.
“Tempting,” I answer, already moving while he chuckles.
Inside, the world explodes, the lights strobe fast, and the bass of the music shakes the floor, the crowd pulsing and shifting, sweat-slicked bodies, perfume hanging heavy, drowning under spilled liquor.
I let it roll over me, and scan the place, and there he is: Henry Lane.
He’s laughing, head tilted back, teeth flashing. Blonde hair, hazel eyes, button-down shirt rolled to the elbows. He has a casual charm; he looks like the type of guy you would trust.
His friends call him Headmaster. Private administrator at three colleges, but he’s known for locking doors behind him and raping girls who seek him for help. They all laugh about it, and no one tries to stop him, even when the girls leave his office crying and bleeding.
My cousin cried for two hours before she could choke out the truth: it wasn’t one man, it was four. One night and her life was gone. Justice shrugged and looked away, but I didn’t.
I walk through the crowd slowly. Every step places me where I need to be… in his line of sight. I shed the jacket and let the top hug tight across my chest, let my hips move with the rhythm, and I turn, trying my best to look sexy. The hours of dance classes did help.
Henry’s eyes find me, but I don’t look away, and his lips curl into a smirk.
He nudges one of his friends, says something, and they all look, that predatory glint in their eyes.
I turn around, giving them my back, hips swinging, and silver hair swishing with the rhythm of my movements.
I head to the bar and order something pink and sugary.
I stir it with the straw, licking it just as I feel someone slide up behind me.
I look up at the mirror behind the bar, and there he is: my prey.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says, right at my ear, with a warm breath that smells like whiskey.
I smile and turn my head just enough to meet his eyes. “Hi there.”
His hand slides immediately to my waist without permission, like my reply means consent.
“Never seen you here before,” he says.
“I just moved,” I reply, voice sweet and soft. “Spent the whole day unpacking. Thought I deserved a reward.”
His grip tightens. “So you’re looking for some fun.”
He leans on the bar, drink in hand. His eyes do another slow drag over me. He thinks he’s in control, and he thinks I want this, which means the plan is working, and I’m one hell of an actress.
“Are you here alone?” I ask, tilting my head.
“Just the guys. Nobody that matters,” he says, lowering his voice to sound sexier.
The amount of strength I have not to roll my eyes is astonishing, so instead, I trail my fingers down his arm, slow enough to feel the goosebumps rise. “Then let’s skip the hour of fake flirting. You saw me. I saw you. Let’s not pretend we don’t already know where this ends.”
He blinks once, eyes wide, looking like I fucking broke him, but his lips curl into a dangerous smirk.
He turns around, lifts a hand, and his friends respond, all fake smiles.
I take the moment to brush the rim with my thumb and let a pinch of powder fall, disappearing into the glass before he even turns.
“Finish it,” I say, smiling wider. “It’s too expensive.”
“I can buy twenty more.” He chuckles but still drains it in one swallow. “Back door,” he says, already reaching for my hand, he pulls me through the crowd to the back door.
I already knew he would take this route.
Henry holds the door like a gentleman in a movie. I walk past him, fingers grazing his chest, and he grabs me, closes the door with his foot, and spins me into the brick, hands on my ass and mouth on my neck. He’s breathing hard, already worked up from the idea of being bad.
“You smell so fucking good,” he groans.
I stare over his shoulder, counting paint cracks so my heartbeat stays steady, but his hands go higher, his mouth meets mine, and he moans. I almost gag.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One… nothing.
Shit, I need to up the dose on this thing!
I try to push away, but he barely moves. He goes for my earlobe and bites it. “Your skin tastes so sweet,” he pants, and I laugh, push him again and, finally, he stumbles.
“You alright?” I ask, voice light, head tilted.
“Yeah.” He plants one hand on the wall and blinks a couple of times; his pupils are blown wide. “Just a little dizzy.”
“You only had one drink.” I hold him up, pretending to care.
“I didn’t eat much,” he mutters. “That’s probably it.”
I press into his side and tuck myself under his arm. “Come on. Let me take care of you.”
He hesitates; his instincts whisper, but I smile and lean up. “I’ll make you scream my name all night, baby.”
He grins, glassy-eyed. “I want you to suck my cock.”
Of course you do.
I open the car door and guide him in; he slumps, his body folding, and his head hits the headrest.
Footsteps scrape behind me, and I turn, freezing, scanning the dark alley, but I can’t see shit!
“Hello?” My voice is calm, curious, and fake as hell.
No answer.
The alley stays still, lights flicker behind the dumpster, and the club’s still pounding music inside. I get in the car and shut the door; my hands tremble on the steering wheel.
Henry’s out cold next to me, slack-jawed, snoring faintly.
The radio blasts to life. Mika. “Love Today.” What can I say? The bubblegum pop songs calm me down.
I sing along. The chorus wraps around us like tinsel and sugar while I drive toward the woods.
The real work begins soon.