1. Amiyah #2
“Do not good morning me,” Penelope snaps, her voice bursting through the speakers bright and furious and obviously hopped up on energy drinks.
“You absolute pink menace,” she continues, apparently having already started this sentence somewhere in the emotional lobby of her apartment and dragged it all the way into my car.
“I sat there for forty-seven minutes listening to dead air like a Victorian wife waiting for news from the war. You were supposed to be on comms, damn it!”
“I was on a rooftop. That’s basically like being on comms with God.”
“Don’t you dare fucking patronize me, Amiyah Lane.” her voice is stern.
Penelope has been in my ear longer than anyone. Before being employed with the underground, before the training, back when this life still belonged to our parents and we were just little girls who knew better than to ask questions at the dinner table. Life was simple then.
Well, as simple as it could have been for the children of assassins.
Back when Penelope and I thought “business trip” meant our fathers were accountants and “never touch the locked cabinet” was normal parenting.
Spoiler alert: it was not.
“I’m sorry for making you worry. It won’t happen again.”
My fingers are crossed.
“Liar.”
She knows.
“You can’t just vanish mid-op because you’re feeling artisanal and independent.”
“I didn’t vanish. I was right where I said I’d be.”
“Without audio.” I can hear clicking in the background, the manic little taps of a frustrated Penelope’s nails on a keyboard.
“What if someone had noticed you? All I’m saying is, it’s my job to keep you safe out there and it’s kind of hard when you go all lone cunt-ish Sniper Barbie.
” she says, and underneath all the caffeine fizz and outrage, I hear the genuine concern in her voice and it makes my heart sputter.
Damn her.
I hate when she makes my heart do something unscheduled.
It’s rude.
“Sniper Barbie feels cliche,” I say, keeping my voice light because anything heavier will turn the inside of this car into a feelings aquarium and I absolutely do not have time to swim in that storm right now. “Next time I won’t turn off my comms, okay?”
A pause, then a sigh.
“Okay, you better not.” she finally says. “The twins have already made an appearance and wiped the crime scene. I’ll let you know when I have your next file.”
Damn, the twins are quick.
“Thanks, Penelope. I’ll talk to you soon. Love youuu.”
She laughs, “Love you too, bitch.”
There's a click and then silence.
My neighborhood appears a few minutes later, my apartment building towering over the palm-lined street like a very expensive black monolith trying to pretend it isn’t homing a ton of murder consultants.
The Obsidian catches the first faint bruising of dawn on its glass skin, all sleek angles and tinted windows.
The valet at the front pulls his little black jacket tighter around himself and lifts a hand as I glide into the circular drive, because in this building even the dawn shift looks like it was cast by a luxury perfume campaign.
“Morning, Ms. Lane,” he says.
“Morning, Theo.” I smile the kind of smile that says I am a sweet, harmless law student and not someone currently transporting a disassembled rifle in a camera case.
Even though The Obsidian is home to some of us that work for the underground, most individuals that are residents are completely clueless that it’s owned by an elite society of professionals that dabble in the art of deception, who prefer their operatives to live in comfort.
The valet, Theo, is definitely one of the clueless ones.
His main concerns are parking cars and remembering which resident gets the Wall Street Journal and which gets the LA Times.
Theo steps forward and opens my door, a courtesy of The Obsidian.
I step out, and make my way to the trunk and grab out the black case taking up its space.
My hand dips down in my purse and I pull out my wallet and hand him a generous tip out of it before slipping inside the lobby and to the elevators.
I walk down the hall a beat, turn to the hall on the right and my apartment is the fifth door down, once inside, I set the case on the coffee table, open my laptop, and pull up the Evidence Law syllabus while the shower heats up.
Today’s topic is hearsay exceptions. Ironic, given that the man currently cooling on a penthouse rug will never bear witness to anything again.
The shower is hot and exactly what I need.
About twenty minutes later I’m dressing in a blush pink fitted blouse that drapes at the shoulder and a cream pleated mini skirt.
My hair is still damp when I blow dry it into soft waves, framing my face with the kind of calculated effortlessness that takes forty-five minutes to achieve.
The mirror reflects a girl who looks like she spent her morning scrolling TikTok and drinking matcha, not putting a bullet through someone’s skull.
I swipe on a gloss, apply mascara, and spray myself with my favorite perfume.
Finally, my bag gets packed with three highlighters, two notebooks, and the crushing weight of my student debt, which follows me everywhere like a ghost that’s really bad at haunting.
I check the time: 7:20.
The case goes into the hidden room behind the back wall in my bedroom walk-in closet. I close the panel and it shuts with a satisfying click, leaving behind nothing but the seamless join of the wall.
My phone chirps from the kitchen counter.
Your Brown Sugar Vanilla Latte is ready for pickup at Beaned & Brew’d!
Perfect timing.
I snatch my phone and keys, shoulder my bag, and head for the door.
The elevator ride down is brief—just enough time to check my reflection in the polished brass interior and smooth a stray wave back into place.
The doors open to the lobby, and I stride past the marble fountain, nodding at the morning concierge, who gives me a cheerful wave.
I make it to class at 7:52.
The front row is still available, of course. I slide into my seat, take a sip of my latte, unpack my notebook, and uncap a highlighter as Professor Halsey marches into the room with a stack of casebooks and the expression of a woman who has already decided today will be disappointing.
She hasn’t seen me yet. When she does, her face will soften into the particular smile reserved for students who make her job easier. The smile that says you, I like you, you are not the problem.
She has no idea.
None of them do.
That’s the point.