Chapter Fifteen
Some people enjoy hiking. Others,playing cards or knitting an afghan. They’ll tell you that it justdoes itfor them, that something about it makes their life complete.
Well, killing people does that for me.
Maybe that’s what Brian needs—a hobby.
I coast down I-35 North, tailing the Cadillac.
“Siri, play my Work Playlist on Spotify,” I say. Music thumps from the speakers, and I roll down the windows and sing along as the playlist switches to Taylor Swift’s “Mastermind.” The town car two vehicles ahead of me seems to be heading for Austin, or maybe one of the smaller cities along the way. But we pass the exit for the giant water park about halfway between the two cities, and I’m pretty sure the bigger city is our destination. Puffy clouds speckle the blue sky. Green trees and unremarkable buildings dot the side of the highway. It’s a beautiful Texas day, and soon, I get to kill this guy. I can’t wait.
The song changes, and as Demi Lovato sings about being confident, I let a smile play over my mouth. This is it. This is the BigJob that’s going to show them I can do everything a man can. That, in fact, I can do it better. That this mommy-tracked bullshit is, well, bullshit. I’ve found my mark. Now all I have to do is plan the perfect murder.
The music cuts out.
My gaze flicks to the dash and dread erupts when I see the incoming call.The Texas Girls’ Academy, the caller ID reads.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I know it before I even answer: Eliza is sick again.
I hit the button on the door and the motor whirs as the window rolls up.
“Hello?” I accept the call on Bluetooth.
The fizz of static, and then, “Hi, is this Mrs. Davis?”
I clear my throat, press down on the gas, make sure the black car doesn’t get too far ahead of me as it weaves in and out of traffic—probably the driver, watching for a tail. “Speaking.”
“Hi, this is Annette, the nurse here at TGA.”
Today of all days. I swear to god this is how it always works. The last time I had a doctor’s appointment, for example—the kind where you have to wrestle your feet into stirrups—Evie got sick with the flu, and I had to reschedule for another six months out. Which, honestly, I wasn’t that mad about, butstill.
“Hi, Annette.”
“I’m afraid Eliza says her stomach is bothering her.”
I glance at the dash that counts up, showing how many seconds I’ve been on the phone, as though I can see Annette’s face and she can see mine, along with the incredulous look I must be wearing.
“Okaaay.” I draw the word out, and that familiar ache comes to my jaw as I clench it once again.
Please tell me she’s not trying to persuade me to pick my kid upbecause she has a stomachache.For five-year-olds, that means one of two things: they’re nervous about something or they need to poop. Knowing my kid, it’s the latter.
“Do you mind coming to get her?” Annette asks in a disgustingly sweet singsong that should be reserved only for children.
“I’m working, actually. Is she sick or just saying that her stomach hurts?”
“Um…” Annette’s holding back. Trying to be polite. Trying to not sayJust come get your kid, lady, because most moms at TGA are either stay-at-home or professionals who have a full-time nanny.
“Listen, if she’s not actually sick—like not throwing up, doesn’t have a fever—she should be in school. Right?” I turn it around, put it on Annette to tell me it’s preferable my daughter is not in class when she is, in fact, fine. “Or have you had her try to go to the bathroom?”
You would think she’d get the message. You would also be wrong.
“Well, my philosophy is to listen to the child. If they say they are sick, then they are sick.”
My mouth opens, but I snap it shut before I say something likeAre you fucking kidding me?
“Let me call you back.”
The town car takes a random exit last second, and I go on alert, tensing my hands on the steering wheel—maybe they’ve spotted me. They zoom off the highway, braking hard so they don’t go straight through the stop sign at the top of the turnoff.
