Teachers trickle through, and in between socially awkward pleasantries, I glance at my phones—my regular one, to see if Brian’s texted again, and my work one, to see if there are any updates from John.
“You okay?” Megan asks at one point.
“Oh, I’m fine. My husband just told me he has to leave town for work and—” I shrug, letting her assume what she will.
“That’s hard. I hate when Rodney leaves. It’s so lonely.”
I blink at her and wisely keep my thoughts to myself. I’ve learned the hard way that other women don’t feel the same way I do about their spouse being away. I do miss Brian when he’s gone, but I also love my job. When he’s out of town, I have more time inthe evenings to focus on it. I don’t really get lonely. Megan works part-time, but many of the other PTA moms don’t, and I often wonder how they are possibly happy. Their entire lives wrapped around their children. Have they lost themselves, lost sight of the things that used to give them joy? Or doting on their children, isthatthe thing that allows them to feel fulfilled? MaybeI’mthe one doing it wrong. But what happens when their kids leave home? I don’t quite understand it. I feel like the balance I have with work and family, with Brian, is ideal, and I can’t imagine anything else.
Then again, I also kill people for a living, so maybe I shouldn’t be judging anyone.
Megan must mistake my silence for sadness, and she nods at the pastries. “You should have one. The cinnamon rolls are divine. They’ll make you feel better, I promise.”
“Split one?”
“Absolutely. We need fresh coffee though.”
“I’ll get the coffee,” I say. “You pick out a cinnamon roll.”
I follow the corridors back to the staff lounge, and on the way, a teacher’s aide in slacks and a white polo with the school logo stops me.
“Eliza’s mom, right?”
I pause, hand heavy with a carafe, one foot in the door of the kitchen area.
“Yes?” I smile politely, professionally. Because that’s what private school moms do.
“Here you go.” She hands me a regular white envelope, my name scrawled across the front. Before I can thank her—or ask what this is about—she disappears down the hall.
After a beat, it occurs to me that I didn’t notice what she looked like, if she had a name tag like the other staff members. I tuck the envelope into my leggings pocket—probably an update on Eliza’sgrades, or she is being tested for the gifted program—maybe results from that. I start a new pot and carry the freshly brewed one out front, dreaming about an Americano with an extra shot of espresso, maybe a dollop of whipped cream…
It’s only when Megan hands over my half of a cinnamon roll and I bite into it—my mouth filling with sweet, warm, cinnamony goo—that I realize how odd it was that a random aide tracked me down before school started. That I didn’t recognize her, that I didn’t catch her name, that, hell, she didn’t introduce herself as the overly formal and polite staff tend to do. For that matter, that she knew I’d be here.
It’s at that moment I realize what I have in my pocket.
Chapter Eleven
I can’t get home fastenough.
The pharmacist is temporarily forgotten—she still needs to die, butImight die if I don’t open what is obviouslythepackage. I need to find out what’s inside, who the Big Job will be, and how I will have the pleasure of going about killing them.
By the time I reach the house, I’m thrumming with excitement.
Bear greets me at the door, and I give her a pat, let her out back to sniff. Upstairs, I make my way into the closet, then the hidden room, and settle myself on the soft carpet I had installed along with the door. The envelope is unremarkable, white like any other that might come in the mail, and that makes it even more mysterious.
I press a thumb under the seal, careful not to tear whatever’s inside. A single folded piece of printer paper floats out in a trifold, like an official letter. When I open it, I frown. This is…unusual. Details are usually scribbled in pen, and always in a different handwriting, or occasionally typed out. A few facts, such aspharmacist,woman,coffee shop 9:30 a.m.,dry cap hazelnut,accident—keeping it vague, but allowing me to identify the mark, when andwhere I’ll find them, and any details on the nature of the kill. But this…this is notthat. This is a freaking poem. An amateur one at that.
On May 10th, you may take a walk,
Go to where the concrete stops,
Secrets cloaked in bindings tight,
A lover you’ll follow into the bright,
He’ll point the way,
Then you may,
