In fact, without my grandmother, I still might have ended up that way. But Gran—a five-foot-nothing fury of a woman—she saw the real me. She’s maybe, besides Ian, the only person who ever has. She saw the gleam in my eye as I watched other humans, how I studied my fellow children instead of playing with them. And when Piper’s boyfriend died, she knew what I’d done. She didn’t judge—only gave me a warning.You make sure you’re killing the right kind of people if you’re gonna be doing shit like that, you hear me, Nadia? Make the world a better place. Make it your superpower.
I think about that a lot. Mysuperpower.
I also wonder if she recognized what I am because she wasn’t so different. Now she lives in a memory care center. While I don’t remember him, I understand that my grandfather was not a kind man. When my father talks about his childhood, his stories are filled with horrific accounts of physical and emotional abuse—not just toward him and his brothers, but also toward his mother, mygrandmother. It’s a miracle my dad turned out to be okay after everything he went through; I have no doubt it was thanks to her.
Despite her being a wonderful grandmother, I’ve always thought she had another side. My grandfather died mysteriously and unexpectedly when he was a mere sixty years old. I’d never tell my dad, but I’m pretty sure Gran killed him. I’m also certain that if she did, he deserved it.
It’s an odd thing to feel a kinship with her about, but I’ll take it. Honestly, anything that makes me feel connected to family. While my mom and dad did a good job raising me, I’ve always known they considered me to be the odd one out. It’s hard to be close to a child who scares you a little. I think they about melted with relief when they found out I was getting married, when I bought a house and got pregnant and offered them anything in the vein ofnormal.
“Helllloooo!” A distant voice, a sharp rap on my passenger side window. I jolt, but I don’t dive for my gun. It’s only the principal, a sixtysomething woman with white hair piled on top of her head, a pencil tucked behind her ear like it’s part of her uniform. Maybe it is.
I roll down the window. “Hello, Mrs. Brown. How are you?”
“Oh, lovely. I can’t believe the school year’s nearly over, can you?”
“Sure can’t.” Somehow, I’d forgotten that little fact.
“Have you thought about teaching? I know you’re a stay-at-home mom, but we have a few teacher’s aide positions open. You could dip your toes in, see if you like it.” She beams at me like she’s given me a golden ticket.
“Uh…I have a job, actually. But thank you.”
“Oh. Well, I know you have that little events planning thingy, but it just seems—so…” She waves her hand and leans in. “Imean, like selling makeup or something. Surely it doesn’t keep you busy.”
I take a drink from my now-cold coffee to give myself a moment. You know when you kind of want to strangle someone, but of course you wouldn’t? Imagine that. Except I actually have.
“Oh, here comes Eliza. Good to see you!” I whisper a thank-you to whatever higher power does exist and wave at my daughter, who is still fifty feet away, giving me plenty of time to continue this conversation if I want to.
But I don’t.
A half hour later, we’re home, and I’m feeding the girls a snack of raw veggies with hummus. Fifty-fifty on whether they’ll eat it or beg for Pop-Tarts, but according to every Instagram mom ever, I should at leastofferit. So I set them up with an educational show (don’t judge), put the snack plate within easy reach, and sneak my work phone out as I turn on the oven and toss potatoes in to bake.
I can’t leave the girls downstairs alone to creep into my hidey-hole, so I break one of my own rules, dialing John from the kitchen as I keep one eye on them and pull the ingredients for a salad from the fridge. It rings until his voicemail picks up.
“Call me,” I say. I glance over at the girls, who are mesmerized byBlippi, allowing me to take another moment to myself. A sudden urge to text Ian hits me. To messageThanks for this morningorWhat do you think I should do?or maybeShould I get a new handler and communicate only by email and pretend to be a dude?I don’t though. I turn the phone’s volume to silent, tuck it away inside my purse, and instead text my husband with my other phone:Love you, sweetie. I just started dinner!
I may be who I am—but for my husband, I have to keep up the pretense. Perfect wife. Mom. And…little events thingy planner.
Speaking of events to plan. I pull my secret phone back out and scroll through the photos I took of one killer pharmacist today. She’s apparently diluting cancer drugs. Selling off a portion on the black market. Pocketing the money she makes. And in the process, letting patients die.
These are my favorite jobs. The ones where I get to kill a killer—the worst kind, who hurt good people. The ones who aren’t like me.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
Chapter Six
It’s just after eight, andthe girls are asleep. Brian stands on the patio, watching the sun as it makes its last gasp toward the horizon. I observe him through the kitchen window as I mix old-fashioneds. The muddled cherry at the bottom of the glass looks a bit like blood, but a splash of whiskey wipes the thought away. Checking to make sure he’s not watching, I add a little something extra to his, as I often do—just enough to help him sleep soundly. A quick stir, the addition of a giant square ice cube from the freezer, and I hold his in my left hand, mine in my right. Wouldn’t do to mix them up.
“Here you go, sweetie.”
Brian looks over, brushes his hair back, accepts his drink with a smile. “Thanks, hon.”
We sit on the porch swing, rocking gently as darkness falls.
He exhales. “What a day.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“Nothing bad, just…” He lets his voice go off for a moment, lost in thought. His gaze flicks to me. His mouth parts, words seemingly on the tip of his tongue. Then he presses his lips together,shakes his head. “It’s nothing, just another day, I suppose.” He gives me a smile and wraps a big arm around me. He’s strong, athletic, hitting the gym every day before or after work, and it shows. I rest my head on his shoulder, try to think of something interesting to tell him.
