by Rina Kent
When my double shift is finally over, it's the middle of the night. I take Bill up on his offer and he walks me to my Honda parked in the lot in front of the hospital. He's nothing but a gentleman, and I'm grateful that he isn't trying to take advantage of my mental state when I'm vulnerable.
"I can do this every night," he says as I unlock my crappy old car.
"That would make me feel a lot safer," I reply with a soft smile. "Thank you, Bill."
We say our goodbyes and I drive home in silence, my heart starting to pound the closer I get to home. My apartment has always been a safe haven, and if nothing else, I have my cats there to keep me company.
I walk into the apartment to the cats' protests and feed them right away, petting their soft fur. I feel so bad leaving them when I have to work double shifts, so I open the balcony door so they can watch the outside world. I lie down on the couch with my favorite mug filled with hot peppermint tea, and try to unwind a little, though it seems an impossible task. My mind keeps going back to Dr. Martin and the horrible way he ended up leaving this world.
When I reach for my fluffy blanket, I find it folded over the chair instead of the sofa. Weird. I could have sworn I left it on the sofa, like I always do. I get up to collect it, and when I do, I get the strange feeling that something's off.
I can't quite put my finger on it. It's as if some things have been moved, taken from their place and then carefully placed back. The differences are subtle – my calendar slightly askew on the fridge door, the picture frame with me, Dinah and Katya turned the wrong way. Fear and panic seep through my pores as I search for more signs that someone's been in here. But nothing is missing. It's just the little differences in how things are positioned.
I try to calm down by telling myself it's nothing, though I don't quite manage to convince myself.
After watching an episode of my favorite TV show, I head to the bathroom and draw myself a long, hot bath. As I soak in the comfort of the rose-scented bubbles, I allow myself to relax. Nobody's going to hurt me. Nobody is out to get me. I'm just shaken because of what happened with Dr. Martin, but even that was just a freakish, unplanned robbery. I got off lucky. I need to remember that.
I close my eyes for a long moment, allowing myself to relax in the comfort of the tub. When my eyes fly open again, they zero in on something on the tile floor, a small, black dot on the otherwise spotless white tile.
It's a spider.
My body moves of its own accord, panicking. Water sloshes over the edge of the tub and my teeth begin to chatter as I stare at the harmless creature in the middle of the bathroom. I'm suddenly terrified, frozen to the spot. I can't even call out for help. My heart is fucking pounding. My head is all over the place. The longer I look at that fucking spider, the more I want to scream.
A memory assaults my mind. A woman, reaching out for me, a scream tearing itself from her lips as she tries to grab hold of me. Then, a bullet burying itself in her chest from behind. Blood blooming on her white blouse, the stain getting bigger and bigger.
The sound of screaming fills my head, a memory of the past I've long tried to leave behind. The deja-vu is so intense I choke on my own breath, my eyes filling with tears I don't understand.
The woman falls to the ground before my eyes, little chubby hands extending toward her. My hands. My mother. Dead on the floor. Her body like a spider's, arms and legs fanned out on the wood, broken, dead.
I want to scream but I can't. I can't even breathe. It takes all my effort to slowly pick myself up, hands shaking as I grab for the towel on the rack next to the tub. I cover myself up and tiptoe around the unmoving spider. I head to the kitchen, my heart still pounding with inexplicable fear as I collect a glass from the kitchen cabinet. I head back to the bathroom. The black dot is still on the ground, and I quickly place the glass over it. Despite my fear of spiders, I can't bring myself to hurt it. It's innocent. It doesn't deserve to die.
I walk out backwards, with my front facing the monster on the ground, locking the bathroom door from the outside before I finally breathe out in relief. The memories that assaulted my mind when I saw the thing seem unbelievable now, but something rings true deep within me every time I remember the scene.
Crawling into bed with my cats, I yawn and pull the covers close. Mr. Bingley and Mrs. Hudson cuddle up next to me and I pull the covers over us. But somehow, it's even scarier beneath them.
After tossing and turning all night, I wake up to the sound of my blaring alarm clock yet again.
Groaning, I get free of the covers and let out an involuntary shiver when I remember what happened yesterday. First, Andrew Martin... and then the spider in my bathroom.
Goosebumps erupt all over my skin and I force myself to use the bathroom door. I try to unlock it, but it's not locked anymore. Furrowing my brows, I walk into the tiled space.
The glass is gone.
There's nothing on the tile anymore.
I want to cry. I swallow back a scream and run into the kitchen, throwing open the cupboard. I try to think rationally, telling myself I have six of those glasses. I just need to count them to make sure everything's okay. I count out loud, painfully slowly, my fingers tracing the shapes of each glass.
"One, two, three. Four, five... Six."
All the glasses are there. Did I imagine the spider last night?
I dig through the muggy mess in my mind. Am I losing it? Why can't I remember things properly?
I tell myself I must've been very tired last night, and that's why I'm mixing things up. The spider was like something out of a nightmare. It's totally possible I imagined it when I was lying in bed, so tired after my shift... right?
Swallowing, I force myself to close the kitchen cupboard. I get ready for work robotically, pulling on clothes, brushing my hair, swiping mascara on my lashes. I tell myself it's nothing.
As I drive to work, I still feel it.
The nagging feeling of being watched, being followed.
I don't know if it's ever going to go away now.
7
Jasper
I stare at the spider —a small thing with hairy legs and an ugly fucking face.
And yet, it put my little Petal into a complete panic mode.
“What’s your story, boy?” I narrow my eyes on him. “Who gave you the right to mess with her head?”
Only I have the right to do that, and I didn’t even start yet.
At least, not officially.
I know she senses me, with the small looks she throws around her, but she always brushes it off.
I throw the spider out of the balcony. For fuck’s sake, I’m starting to speak to animals like the cat lady herself.
She’s at work now, and I didn’t follow her because I have a meeting with one of Costa’s old workers, someone who can recognize the Costa heir’s whereabouts.
Still, I sit at my balcony and stuff a cigarette between my lips, watching her living room. The two cats are lazing around by the closed door, waiting for her to return.
Considering she was the last one with Dr. Asshole, the police must’ve visited her, asked her questions, but the camera gave her an alibi. She left before I ‘robbed’ him.
She should be safe.
Not that her safety matters, but I still have unfinished business with my little Petal and the police don’t get to have their noses in my fucking fun.
My phone vibrates on the table. Lucio. I take a long drag of my cigarette before I answer.
“The fuck, Jasper?” The bellow of his voice in my ear nearly deafens me, and I have to hold the phone away for a second.
“Good day to you, too, Lucio.”
“Cut the crap. I have a report about a dead doctor with a fatal wound to the neck. This has your fingerprints all over it.”
“I’m too pro to leave fingerprints.”
“You know what I mean.” Something slams on a harsh surface on his end —probably his hand against the desk. “That’s your MO and anyone who met you kn
ows it.”
“We’re lucky most of them are dead, no?”
He pauses. “Does this have to do with finding Paolo’s son?”
If I tell him yes, he’ll dig into it and force results, and when he figures out there aren’t any, it’ll be a different type of hell.
Despite my semi-independence, my loyalty runs with Lucio, and if he suspects I’m lying to him, it’ll only turn ugly for the both of us.
“It’s personal,” I keep it vague.
“Personal how.”
“He pissed me off.” And he touched what he shouldn’t have.
The list can go on.
“Pissed you off?” He repeats in an incredulous tone. “You have perfect self-control.”
True.
Only not with my little Petal. That immaculate self-control has been chipping at the edges, and soon enough, there’ll be a snap.
I have enough self-control to recognize that.
“Won’t happen again,” I tell Lucio.
“Of course it won’t. I told you to keep a low profile this period, Jasper. I don’t have police dummies to spare for someone who pissed you off. Paolo’s men are pushing for his heir, and if you don’t find him before them, well, I don’t have to tell you what’s done to useless dogs.”
“Noted.”
The line goes dead. I stub out the cigarette on the edge of the table, not bothering with an ashtray.
Lucio might have saved my life, but if I’m of no use, I’m disposable just like the rest.
That’s why I made sure to be unlike the rest. I’m someone he can’t live without, let alone think about disposing of.
The day he finds someone more efficient than me, he’ll send them after my life as a test to take my place.
I know because I became his number one hitman after I took care of the previous one.
That won’t be the same for me. I’m goal-oriented enough to keep my head focused on the endgame.
Track. Find. Kill.
So what the fuck am I doing here, watching a girl’s cats and wondering about their fucking names?
There are two options to erase my little Petal out of my head.
Option one: find out everything to know about her, she’ll turn out to be boring and I’ll move along. I usually lose interest in people whenever I know details about their lives —that’s if I have any interest in them in the first place.
That option is halfway done now. It’s time to complete the job.
An hour later, I’m going through my little Petal’s credentials in her bedroom. I don’t sit, and I’m wearing gloves out of habit, even though there are no actual security threats. Breaking into her house is fucking child’s play. I can even have a double key made.
I store that idea for later.
The two cats watch me wearily, actually only one of them is, the orange tabby. He’s been hissing and growling like the other night but is now glaring like he wants to bite me.
Does he think he’s a fucking dog?
The other one sleeps at the foot of Petal’s bed, its tail darting back and forth.
I rummage through her desk and stare at her diploma and official documentation. Her name is Georgina Hill, twenty-seven years old, and has graduated from nursing school a few years ago. She worked in a private clinic before moving to the state hospital.
Grade A student and an actual nerd —aside from being a cat lady.
Her photo album is filled with pictures from foster children fundraising —she was the recipient in several.
Even as a pre-teen and a teen, she had that fake, fucked smile all over her face.
An orphan.
That would’ve been interesting if I cared. So far, nothing stands out. Boring life, boring beginning. I’m starting to think her orange cat is the only interesting thing in her life. He’s a furious little thing.
And maybe her irrational fear of spiders.
I tap my gloved index finger against a picture of her nurse school graduation. Why did she choose this profession? Why did she look on the verge of dying upon seeing that tiny spider?
Fuck this.
I should get out of that door, leave the apartment across the street and wipe the girl with metal eyes and fake smile from my head.
And yet, I can’t.
It’s as simple and as complicated as that.
I simply can’t.
So I move on to the second option. Two girls stand on either side of my little Petal on her graduation day. Her nurse friends in the state hospital.
One of them picked her up when her ugly Honda didn’t start up a few days ago.
The orange cat hisses at me as I arrange the files exactly where I found them. There’ll be days where I’ll go in-depth about her things, but for now, I have to meet my contact and settle this Costa heir issue once and for all.
A black cloth peeks from the underwear drawer and I retrieve it. A pair of lace panties.
I put them under my nose and inhale. It’s nothing like her lilac scent and more fresh, washed.
Shame.
After putting them back where they belong, I’m out.
The fat orange cat follows me all the way to the living room then jumps on the counter near a cup. I stop and turn around then rotate the black cup to read what’s written on it.
I work hard so my cat can have a better life.
A deep chuckle leaves my lips. This is a serious cat lady, isn’t she?
The orange tabby jumps away, still glaring at me as if not approving of how I’m laughing about his owner —or his maid, depending on his perspective.
After one last sweep over her small apartment, I make a note of where I can install listening devices. Then I snap a picture of the calendar she’s pinned to her refrigerator. It’s filled with dates about her nights out with the girls, which happens every weekend if she doesn’t work the night shift.
If she needs to write it in her calendar, she must not care about those nights much.
My little Petal’s life might seem boring from the outside looking in, but there’s something that lurks under the surface.
I can smell it as easily as I smell blood and sense it as easily as I detect fear in my opponents’ eyes before I carve them the fuck up.
My instinct tells me to dig deeper, and while it’s fucking irritating not to know where this is taking me, I don’t ignore my instinct.
The contact I met, the previous gardener of the Costas’, barely remembers the boy. He only knows that Paolo Costa brought his woman and child and then they were gone the same week.
The boy could’ve had the name of Salvatore or Saviano.
The gardener, Giovani, is a man in his late eighties and doesn’t remember well.
The information might as well have been fucking useless to me. I know for a fact that Salvatore or Saviano or whatever the fuck his name is, has a mother. She could be dead or alive or hidden by Paolo. However, if he knew where the mother is, he should’ve found his son, too.
Now, I’m back to point zero. The gardener agreed to search for those who worked with him before, the ones who don’t have much of a record with the Costa because they haven’t stayed there long enough to warrant a file.
Most of them are dead, but some are still alive.
With nothing better to do, I go back to my current favorite hobby. Fine, not a hobby, an obsession.
I take a drag of my cigarette as I follow my little Petal. It’s about ten and she opted to walk halfway to the hospital after her car bailed on her.
She really needs to have that car checked, or better yet, throw it the fuck away.
Her steps are fast and fluid, almost as if she’s in a job. Her coat covers her frame, hiding the curves I’ve seen but wasn’t able to feast on.
I keep a good distance, walking on the other side of the street. She wouldn’t have noticed me even if I was walking right behind her. My little Petal is one of those who shut away the outside world when in the middle of chaos, and only focuses on getting where she n
eeds to go.
The police would notice me, though. There’s a slim chance they’re still watching her for what happened with the doctor, and I’m not ready to take that chance.
As she takes the turn to the hospital, I stop. She stops, too, and for a second, I think she sensed me all along and will now turn around and confront me.
I don’t move, waiting for the moment she spins around. If she does, I’ll erase my plans and do this her way.
I’ll show her my true nature, bend her over her balcony and fuck this obsession out of her.
She doesn’t turn around, though.
My little Petal crouches at the corner. I lean sideways to see what she’s doing.
A small black cat sits in the corner and she stares at him with starry-wide eyes, as if she’s seen a treasure. Her smile is bright and soft, reaching her eyes, slightly closing them.
It’s anything but fake.
It’s utter happiness.
Fuck me.
How can someone look at cats like that?
My little Petal reaches into her bag and retrieves a tuna can then offers it to the kitten. Most women keep makeup in their bags, she keeps fucking cat food.
Go figure.
She plays with the kitten for a whole minute, and the little animal appears vulnerable, casting black magic on her to take him.
It’s working, too. Petal continues staring between her watch and the cat, biting her lower lip.
She wants the cat, but she must think she can’t have more.
With one last caress, she stands up and walks ahead, pulling out her phone. She’ll probably call some animal association, she has their cards on her counter, like a good old cat lady.
I turn around and go into Starbucks. I order an espresso and kids’ snack, ignoring the cashier’s attempts to flirt with me as I settle on the table near the door.
It should happen in three seconds, two, one…
The entrance nearly rattles from its hinges as two kids fly inside in all their energy.
A woman follows, wearing scrubs and carrying a wailing baby in her arms.