Now, the garden’s dead.
The perennial hollyhocks and sunflowers my mom planted so long ago are withered stalks and the slate terrace is covered in leaves.
My only thing to be grateful for is that my stepmother, Marlena, never thought the kitchen was worth remodeling to fit what she’s done to the rest of the house. It’s been renovated from a historically elegant Federal style to a gilt and marble explosion filled with crystal chandeliersin every room - including the bathrooms - and velvet furniture in her favorite color, aubergine.
“Not purple!” Marlena had screamed at the designer. “Not lavender, you bitch!Aubergine!Mysignaturecolor!”
Kyle, Wicked Stepbrother #1,stomps into the kitchen. “Didn’t you hear me? I have a meeting in thirty minutes and my study’s a fucking mess.”
I don’t bother to point out that he’s the one who made it that way. “You wanted pastries for this meeting of yours.” Wiping my hands on the dishtowel, I glare right back. “Which is more important?”
“Both.” Kyle’s wearing what he thinks is his “power suit.” It only proves that even if you dress up a douchebag in a $2,000 suit, it's still just a $2,000 suit stuffed with a douchebag. “Get moving.”
I shuffle down the hall to his study. My stepbrother took over three rooms in the east wing of the house to create a “command center,” and I’m grateful I didn’t have to watch him destroy Dad’s office.
Kyle’s domain also holds secrets.
It’s difficult to get in here without someone hovering over my shoulder, so I have to move fast. When I’m cleaning his study, I have a pattern.
While sweeping up the ash from the cigars Kyle smokes - and who couldn’t find an ashtray if you hit him in the face with it - I check under the furniture, there’s occasionally items hidden there, though usually just stuff like stolen watches and contraband he wants to keep for himself.
Moving on, I clear up the litter of dirty glasses by the bar before crouching down to spin the combination on the safe. It’s still the numbers of his birthday and his last girlfriend’s cup size. So classy. Nothing new, just the same fake ID’s, and a dwindling pile of cash. No thumb drives or incriminating photos.
A quick dusting for the desk as I go through the papers scattered on top. Nothing useful.
Leaving the vacuum running loudly, I pick the locks on the desk drawers. Just the usual sloppy pile of fake credit cards and cocaine. There’s a bottle in the bottom drawer, though, its-
Oh,god.It’s somebody’s pinkie in a jar filled with embalming fluid.
“Nice ass.”
“Son of a bee sting!” I sit up so fast that I bash the back of my head on the bottom of the desk. Steve, Wicked Stepbrother #2, is standing there, hands in his pockets and a stupid grin on his face.
“What are you doing down there?”
“I’m cleaning for Kyle’s big meeting, remember?” Getting up, I push the drawer shut with my knee, praying he doesn’t hear the click of the lock. I circle around the opposite side of the desk to get some distance from him. “There’s a pile of cigar butts that never made it into the garbage can. It’s a miracle he hasn’t set the study on fire.”
“Speaking of fire, whatever you’ve got in the oven is burning. Get moving,Scar.”His grin makes me nauseous; it manages to be greasy and greedy at the same time.
The smoke alarm in the kitchen goes off as I race down the hallway.
I can hear the front door opening and the low murmur of voices as Marlena storms into the kitchen.
“What the hell is wrong with you!” she hisses, “We have an important business meeting and the fucking house smells like the inside of a Cracker Barrel?”
What my stepmother lacks in height, she makes up for with an extensive array of platform high heels. She’s lean and angry-looking, like an angular bird of prey, and her red wrap dress is draped to display maximum cleavage.
“Kyle told me I had to clean the study immediately.” I know even as I say this that it won’t make any difference.
“This is coming out of your pay!”
She stomps back out of the room before I can remind her that she doesn’t pay me. Marlena just enjoys talking to me like I’m the help, and since she’s driven off the rest of the staff who've worked here for years, I’m all that’s left.
I sit down heavily on the window seat and my kitty, Murder Mittens saunters over to sit on my lap. God, I’m so tired. I wish I could sleep for a week.
“Would you like me to murder the Wicked Stepmother?” Morgan offers with complete seriousness. “Really. I could turn her blood into tar. There’s a spell.”
“Generous of you,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “That still leaves me with Wicked Stepbrothers One and Two. I think thatthreesudden deaths from the medical impossibility of blood turning to tar might garner some unwanted attention from the authorities.”
