Chapter 8
The bottle of Chartreuse thunks onto the coffee table, half-empty of its sickly yellowish-green contents and entirely regrettable.
It’s bitter, medicinal; every sip clings to my tongue with the smoky sting of an apothecary cabinet gone up in flames.
Truly, the highlight of the night will be examining my own ultraviolet vomit.
“I just need to know,” I say, blinking at the label, “who the hell takes shots of this?”
Demi, standing on my couch mid–Taylor Swift performance, grabs the bottle and raises it to eye level. “It’s alcohol,” she says, as if that justifies everything. “And we had nothing else.”
That part is true. My house offered one grim option: an ancient bottle of this liquid regret. Either my mother has no taste buds, an iron gut, or a secret recipe that transforms this herbal punishment into something drinkable.
Every time she visits, she shows up with a sack full of bottles and arms overflowing with rare liqueurs, obscure aperitifs, and spirits—each more offensive than the last; no sane person would willingly keep them in their home.
But her visits don’t end with just alcoholic presents.
No—in fact, she turns my place into a makeshift bar for her experiments and constantly nudges me out of my comfort zone.
Although she knows I barely drink, she treats me like her personal blank canvas. Demi on the other hand, delights in whatever mom mixes for her. They both cackle into the early hours while I sit back and listen half-amused, half-resigned. But right now? My mother is not here.
Which means there is no one to make this swamp water remotely drinkable.
And yet, here we are.
Worse? We’d been chasing it with Bash’s favorite drinks; the ones he insisted I buy because some YouTuber swears it’s the elixir of the Gods.
“You know,” Demi muses, taking another sip of razz me up, swishing it around her mouth before gulping it down, “for something created by a douche-canoe, these are surprisingly good.”
I let out a slow breath. This night has gotten far more out of hand than I ever intended. But we’re home. We’re safe. Bash is safe with Andrew.
So why do I still feel like I’m doing something wrong?
I shake the thought away and turn back to my laptop, where Demi has been gleefully navigating what she claims is some kind of “dark web” help site.
“This isn’t the dark web,” I point out, narrowing my eyes at the very basic, very legal looking interface.
Demi waves me off. “It feels like the dark web. That’s what matters.”
I rub at my eyes, my alcohol-fueled patience wearing thin. “And what exactly are we doing?”
“Getting help,” she says dramatically. “You have a stalker, she’s crossed the line, and we need a plan.”
I’m about to argue when an open chat window on the screen catches my eye.
“Demi,” I screech, lunging for the keyboard, “was the voice-to-text on?!”
She blinks down at me, confused. “What?”
I scroll back through the chat history, my stomach dropping with every word.
[Guest]: how woud you handle a stalker?
[Guest]: I don’t think I should ask it like that Sable.
[Guest]: You have to be more discreeet.
[Guest]: We need a bitch gone. Yes?
I whip around to face her. “My name is in this, Demi!”
Demi flops back onto the couch, entirely unconcerned. “There are a lot of Sables in the world.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling through my nose. “That is not the point—”
A message pops up.
My heart stops.
I yelp.
Demi’s eyes go wide. “Oh my God, I might have peed.”
[Representative]: Who exactly do you need gone?
Demi and I look at one another. What do we do? Do we just tell him her name?
I slap my hand over my mouth. Demi clutches my arm again as if she is a horror movie heroine about to be dragged into the abyss. We stare at the message, eyes wide, hearts racing.
Demi inhales. “Okay, but is he hot?” She wags her sparkly painted nail at the keyboard. “Ask that.”
I whip my head toward her. “That is not the question we need to be asking right now!”
“Sure it is.” She sits up straighter, fanning herself. “Because if we’re hiring a hitman, I’d prefer one who looks capable of railing me through a wall and hiding the body without breaking a sweat. Get something out of it before we go to fucking jail for life.”
“This was your idea,” I groan, dragging my hands down my face. And as if I were talking to my child, I say, “You need to pee. Go.”
She wobbles to her feet, pointing at the screen. “Don’t respond without me.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
She disappears down the hall.
I stare at the laptop, heart still hammering. How should I respond?
Another message pops up.
[Representative]: I have to know who it is to do the job.
I blink.
And type before I can overthink it.
[Guest]: Are you saying you actually consider requests through the internet? Because that’s concerning.
A pause. Typing bubble…
[Representative]: Only concerning if you’re not any good at your job.
I shift my legs beneath me, suddenly very aware of the way my skin feels too warm, how I’m still slightly humming from the last shot of the poison Demi poured for us.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
[Guest]: So, what’s the going rate? Asking for a friend.
The response is almost immediate.
[Representative]: Depends. You offering cash or something more… personal?
A slow pulse beats at the base of my throat.
[Guest]: Okay. So. Flirty murder guy. Not what I expected.
“Demi?” I call out.
A small almost-indistinguishable grunt comes from down the hall.
I push up from the floor, and my head swims. I swing my arms out to help my balance and shuffle to my bedroom like a dazed penguin. The light is on. Sprawled out on one side of my bed with one slipper still dangling from her toes is Demi.
She is done.
I sigh, grabbing a throw blanket and tossing it over her. “Guess you’re not coming back to the party.”
She makes a noise of agreement but doesn’t move.
I make my way back to the living room, intending to clean up, but after two minutes of picking up wrappers and shifting things around, I realize the room is swaying. I’m swaying.
Not to risk a head injury, I sink back onto the couch. The laptop screen still glowing.
A new message waits.
[Representative]: You’re not answering the question. That means one of two things… you’re thinking about what I said or you’re trying to figure out if this is a trap.
I smirk, shaking my head. Bad move. I inhale deeply, ordering my brain to stop spinning in my head. The last thing I need is for this person thinking I cannot write properly.
[Guest]: Or I got distracted. My friend is officially dead to the world.
[Representative]: Convenient. I got a clean-up guy for that.
[Representative]: You’re all mine, Sable.
A slow heat curls in my stomach. He knows who he is talking to.
[Guest]: My name is NOT Sable, and you have an interesting way of comforting someone in distress.
I try to throw him off—assuming this is a him. As if that would help, he’s probably got hacking devices that have already run my IP address, and he knows exactly where I live.
[Representative]: Who said I was trying to comfort you? And this is definitely Sable. The typing is significantly better.
I shift, my fingers tightening around the edge of the couch cushion.
[Guest]: Do I get to know your name?
[Representative]: Do you want to know my name?
[Guest]: You think you know mine.
[Representative]: H-
[Guest]: Is that a haha or you go by H?
[Representative]: I’d let you call me anything you want.
I should shut the laptop. Should stop engaging.
Instead, I type:
[Guest]: Cute. So what exactly are your qualifications? For handling problems.
A pause. This is all going to be used as evidence against me in a court of law. I start to shut the screen when I see the words…
[Representative]: Let’s just say I have a very hands-on approach.
And, yeah. I feel that one.