Chapter Six
?
Just act natural. And naturally I’m not praying a sniper takes out my date.
Azalea
Today, my job is to behave normally. And when the cops interrogate me, the situation is simple: Malcolm wanted to go to a theme park.
It’s a work day. He’s known for being eccentric.
It’s not unusual for him to want to go to a theme park and invite his PA along with him.
I didn’t want to go. My boss coerced and/or threatened me.
Because he has done stuff like that.
For two straight years.
Saying so might suggest motive, but it stands to reason that I have no idea how exactly Junction plans to kill Malcolm today.
So I’m basically innocent.
Shirking my only part to play as an accomplice in this scheme off onto the dead man will handle the only issue keeping me from apparent innocence.
It’s not my fault we’re here. It’s his. And, knowing Malcolm, there will be plenty of proof of that on his computer since he’s the one who did absolutely all of the coordination and planning after I mentioned it.
All I have to do to pull off the perfect vigilante crime in the name of justice is behave normally. While I’m doing something I would never do. And have no idea what normal in this context even looks like for someone like me…
Easy peasy.
It’s no wonder I feel like throwing up before I’ve so much as parked outside the Swallow Medical Group building.
Come on, Azalea. Everyone else in the world can behave normally. So can you.
Except you can’t. Because you never have. And everyone knows. Everyone can tell. Everyone can tell you aren’t normal. Everyone knows what you are.
And nobody likes you because of it.
Bracing myself, I grip my white steering wheel and stare at the dash bathed in the light of a cloudy pre-dawn. Nerves gnaw at my stomach, but I wrestle with the loneliness and battle to get my head back in the game.
It’s two days. Hopefully one day. Only one day and one perfect accident, then the balance of justice is restored.
I’ll have done something good with my worthless existence.
Everything will be okay; better than okay, even.
I am doing the right thing. This is a small price to pay for the good of mankind.
And, really, what’s the worst case scenario here? If the assassination fails, I won’t have to pretend I wasn’t involved, because there won’t be anything to not be involved in.
Then I’ll just need to…finish this date. Which will involve staying in an unfamiliar, dirty hotel room, showering in a filthy stall, and not eating. For two straight days.
What if my body decides it doesn’t need to hold onto weight anymore because of the skipped meals?
What if I go back to being as underweight as I was growing up?
What if I contract something from the hotel room, and what if my starved body doesn’t have the energy it needs to fight it off, and what if—
Shaking my head, I take deep, cooling breaths of the safe air inside my car and tell myself about the only what if that matters right now.
What if I shut up.
I have wipes with me. I have a few cleaning supplies in my bag. And—oh yeah—remember how normal people don’t die after staying in a hotel room?
Yeah.
Crazy concept, I know.
Just…be normal.
For once in your pathetic life, be normal.
Fingers shaking, I unlatch them from around my steering wheel, open my car door, and step out.
Malcolm’s waiting for me at his usual parking spot, in his usual jet-black pit of an SUV. My gloved fingers tremble as I reach for the handle, but I don’t make contact before Malcolm’s at my side, opening the door to present…a scene I would never in a million years expect.
“Darling dove,” he murmurs while I remain motionless, staring.
Breathlessly, I whisper, “What is this?”
“Does it meet your standards, darling?”
In the darkness of his vehicle, a white sheet covers the passenger-side chair, tucked around it perfectly above a white floor carpet with a plastic protector.
Amid my shock, leather-clad fingers dance against my skin, grazing my cheek and drawing back my hair. When warm breath coasts near me, I lurch, whipping to face Malcolm. Our noses nearly collide as he says, “I love you.”
My heart jerks.
This has to be some kind of psychological attack. It must be. It really, really—
Cutting off my thoughts, he lifts a fresh canister of Lysol wipes, in my usual flavor of mango and hibiscus. “In case you need to touch anything.” Taking my luggage, he presses the canister to my chest and ushers me inside. “Come now, we’ve a schedule to keep.”
Cornered into the vehicle, I watch the door shut on me. Then Malcolm opens the backseat door, sets my things in a pillow of more white behind my chair, and circles to the driver side.
Once he gets in, there’s no avoiding the truth.
We are feet apart. In his SUV. Together.
And we are about to drive an hour away to a place where anything can happen.
Gripping my purse, I breathe through the tension in my limbs as he backs out of the parking spot and heads to the main road.
At ten miles per hour, the doors automatically lock, and I feel the vibration echo in my skull like my fate being sealed.
?
“No outside food allowed on park premises,” a security guard says when he opens the large pack Malcolm grabbed after our long, silent drive here. “Sorry, sir. You’ll have to leave this in your vehicle.”
“I called ahead,” Malcolm says, fingers tucking into his hair. “I was told an exception could be made in the case of dietary restrictions. I believe I spoke with a Mrs. Arowin if you need to double-check, but she assured me she’d let the exception be known for a Malcolm Swallow.”
The guard’s brows lift. “Ah, I see. You’re Mr. Swallow. Very good then.” The guard ushers him along into the park, then calls to the line, “Next.”
Rejoining me, Malcolm hefts the bag over his broad shoulder and smiles.
I stare at him, then at the pack.
“Yes?” he prompts, voice low and purring.
My brows knit.
He chuckles, reaches in his pocket for a glove, slips it on, then places the covered hand at the small of my back to guide me into the waking nightmare. “Go on. Talk to me. We’ve already spent plenty of time playing in the dead silence of our car ride today, haven’t we?”
“Why are you bringing food into the park?” I ask.
“I think you know.”
“I think I don’t.”
“Really?” His brows rise as the entrance—an overgrown, lush archway bursting with thousands of flowers—gives way to pearly and glittering pathways. Butterflies flit through the air, ignoring the steadily rising hum of voices and the shriek of roller coasters making their first routes of the day.
Already, I’m overwhelmed.
And having Malcolm’s hand against me doesn’t help any more than him murmuring, “It’s so you’ll be able to eat today.”
I flinch.
He swears, long and low. “Tormenting me already, darling little dove?”
I pull out of his reach and stare at him. “What…do you mean it’s so I’ll be able to eat today?”
Shifting the pack, he unzips and shows me.
My throat tightens.
“It’s not exactly a meal, but I was working with shelf-stable, individually packaged, and vegan, so…” He removes a box of Nature’s Bakery double chocolate brownies. “I did what I could with guidance from the things I’ve seen you bring for your lunches before.”
Lips parted, I stare at him, look in the bag, see my go-to fig bars…my favorite chips…the granola I gravitate toward…the glass bottle juices that I get because even though they’re expensive, I need to be able to see into the container I’m drinking from.
I don’t…understand what’s happening.
It’s thoughtful. Beyond thoughtful. This on top of the way he prepared his car for me chills me to the bone.
He is terrifying.
Exactly how deep does he intend for these psychological attacks to go?
Replacing the package, he zips everything up and holds my gaze. “Maybe…” he murmurs, “…never tell me I don’t know anything about you again.”
I gulp.
He lifts his chin, toward the ordeal that is this theme park, and says, “Shall we?”
So we do. For a morning. And an afternoon. And the start of an evening. No disaster befalls him as he lysols every surface I need to touch, coerces me onto dreadful rides, forces me to take pictures with him, and just overall unsettles me with how kindly he’s behaving.
Not just kindly, either. He’s happy.
Delighted.
Attentive and adoring and considerate and…
Scaring me to death. Because who knows what all this luring into security is preparing me for?
Exhaustion plagues me as I shakily step onto what Malcolm’s promised will be the final ride for today.
If I’m perfectly honest, I barely have the energy to care about all the germs that have been collected and confined in the large glass box that is a cabin on this observation wheel, AKA the ferris wheel’s uppity cousin.
As I fall into one of the unclean seats, I find myself wishing death might take me if it’s not so keen on coming for Malcolm.
I so dearly wish I had brought my burner and could discreetly send Junction an ever-so-polite strongly worded text message.
Pity I assumed having such a thing on me might prove somehow incriminating in the event I couldn’t convince the cops of my indifference and they insisted on searching my things.
“Tired?” Malcolm murmurs, tone amused, even though we’ve just been locked in this glass box about to go soaring high over the entire park. Sitting beside me instead of across from me, he tugs his accursed glove on.
I stiffen, ready for an unwelcome touch, but he merely opens up his pack, retrieves a Lysol wipe, and cleans the leather. It hurts to force down my swallows with every tight moment that passes.
Nothing harrowing takes place in the cramped space. Steadily, the cabins fill. Steadily, we rise higher and higher into the air—into the night.
Last ride means going to the hotel after this.
Going to the hotel means spending an entire night mere feet from this monster.
Could I be so lucky as to contract something and die in my sleep?
Cutting my eyes toward Malcolm, I monitor my breaths as he waves his hand to dry his glove. His gray eyes—like twin moons—settle on me, delving beneath my flesh, into my heart and soul and mind. They glint.
I cave in on myself, bracing for the worst.
“Poor baby,” he coos, curling toward me, caging me against this side of the seat. His gloved hand pinches my chin and lifts my face. “You’ve done so well today.”
Voice thin, I whisper, “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
Nothing? Nothing? As if cornering me like this is nothing.
We’re mid-air now, securely so, dangling off the side of this egregiously large wheel. Alone. Together. In a locked space surrounded by the night sky as the stars above battle to be seen beyond the glimmer of the thriving park beneath.
“This doesn’t seem like nothing, sir.”
“Crow,” he corrects.
“Sir,” I bite.
His head shakes, and his thumb swipes along my jaw. “Stubborn, stubborn.” Predictably, his gaze falls on my lips, and panic sends my hands flying to his chest. Fingers spread, I rally to shove him away with all my might, but he doesn’t lean in. He says, “I’m not going to kiss you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t believe me? You don’t believe that I won’t do something you’d hate?”
My teeth clench. “My hating something hasn’t exactly stopped you from doing things before.”
“Is that right?” He tilts his face, moves closer.
I shove.
Not a singular centimeter of him budges.
My heart drops.
He stops, inches from my face, and smirks. “I was ready for that.”
“Get away from me,” I hiss, breathless.
“Your voice is trembling.” The way he says so holds far too much endearment.
My lip quivers. “Please.”
He exhales a laugh, but then the great big width of him pulls back to settle on the other side of this long plastic seat. Bracing an elbow, he gazes out the window. “Please,” he echoes, warm smile reflecting in the glass before him. “That’s going to haunt me all night.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but good. I hope loads of things haunt him all night. Especially ghosts. Because I so dearly pray he’ll be one of them before we even get out of this place. Maybe the plan is a good old-fashioned stabbing on the way back to our car.
I could really go for a good old-fashioned stabbing right about now.
“Azalea,” Malcolm says, sweetly.
Hardening my nerves, I mutter, “What?”
His eyes close. His smile broadens. “I’m proud of you.”
Disgust riots. I shove, shove, shove it down with the anger, with the hate, with the unrest. With the everything. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“You did it. You went to a theme park. And you didn’t die.”
My throat closes. Regrettably, we both went to a theme park, and neither of us died, but why is he even mentioning that? “W-wha—”
He looks at me.
My voice cuts off.
He points. “I didn’t wash that seat.” He lowers his hand. “Yet you live.”
I wince.
He muses, “What an unprecedented occurrence.”
“Are you mocking me?” My words break.
He arches a brow. Contemplates. Decides. “No?”
My gloved hands clench against my pure white skirt. I picture the emotions inside me bubbling up and popping. One by one, they die, and I regain control. “I know I’m extreme, sir. You think I don’t, logically, understand that things will be fine if I don’t do all this? You think I’m that stupid?”
“I think your brain attacks you. I think you don’t fight back as much as you should. I think you give in and listen instead.”
My heart squeezes. “I used to fight it, but how long do you expect me to wage a never-ending war? I got tired. I am tired, so now I just follow the rules, and most days I get by.”
“I’ve never really liked rules much.”
I take in air. Calm myself some more. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing they aren’t yours.”
“I love you.”
My shoulders bunch, and I fix my attention on him.
No smile. No amusement. Instead, cold, hard determination settles in his eyes and the shape of his mouth. He rocks his jaw, brings a hand to it, and rubs at the trim hair there as he pulls his gaze off me. “Do you even know what that means, Azalea?”
I, quite honestly, don’t have a clue. Not when he’s treated me the way he has in the past. Not when I can’t bring myself to trust anything seemingly kind that he’s done today—no matter how exhausting or thoughtful what he’s done today has appeared. I say, “I’m convinced neither of us does.”
He sighs, and a forlorn touch grazes his lips. “Right.”
Silence enters the cabin after that, and, unfortunately, Malcolm doesn’t die before we leave for the hotel…