by Wendy Heard
“Perfect. Fair warning, I’m not sure I can keep up with your good mood. Are you really not going to tell me what happened today?”
She fidgets with her diamond ring. “I can’t tell you, but I feel less... I don’t know. Less powerless somehow. Like I’m in control of my own life again after a long time.” She pushes off the counter. I think she’s heading to the hall to get her shoes on, but she steps toward me. She puts a hand on my arm. “I feel like me again. Does that make sense?”
No. Not at all. Why do women communicate like this? Just say what you fucking mean.
She trails her hand down my arm. I watch the path her fingertips trace, past the pirate ship and onto the skull and crossbones. Her touch burns like dry ice, leaving a trail of goose bumps in her fingers’ wake. “What—” I begin.
She leans forward and kisses my cheek. Her face is silky smooth, and I’m intensely aware of the curves of her body. “Sofia, what—”
She kisses my lips, softly. Her hair tumbles down over my shoulder and envelops me in the fresh scent of conditioner.
Fuuuuck. I grip her upper arms and pull back to make eye contact. “Are you drunk? Were you drinking before I got here?”
“Of course not.” A frown darkens her face. “Why would you ask that? What about me makes people think I’m this—this alcoholic?”
“No no no. It’s not—I’m just—I’m trying to make sure—I’m trying to understand.” I’m trying to understand why you would want me, I finish in my head. I feel naked, soaked through with hope that she’ll touch me again.
She sighs, a soft sad sound like she can read my mind, and she brushes her lips against mine. Hers are full, soft, and I feel mine move slowly against them. Her fingers sneak up under my shirt, across my bare stomach and up my sides. It tickles, and I hiss a little breath, which makes her smile. She kisses me harder, her tongue velvety smooth. Her breasts press against me, warm, soft. I run a hand up the back of her hair and grip the roots. Her breath catches and I feel a snap of satisfaction. Our kissing deepens, quickens.
I spin her around and press her back against the fridge. My hand runs up her skirt, traces the curve of her hip. She messes with my ponytail and the rubber band goes flying. My hair spills loose around my shoulders. She tugs at the hem of my shirt. I lift my arms obediently and she pulls it off me, tosses it aside. She makes a little sighing noise, runs her hands across my chest and kisses me again. I wedge my thigh between her legs and push forward, grip her hips and bring her toward me, kiss her slower. Her leg wraps around my hip. I let my hands get up under her skirt onto her ass and pull her tight up against me. I get a little moan out of that one, which sets my chest on fire.
A sound comes from the hallway. Is someone knocking? It’s more of a rustling... Did Sofia lock it?
“What’s wrong?” Sofia asks. She pulls my face back to hers, kisses me again.
“Did you hear that?” I release her ass, which is an actual sacrifice, and cross the kitchen to the hall to peer out the peephole. I see the top of a head, like someone’s crouched in front of the door.
The hell? I yank the door open.
A man is stooped forward, a handful of flyers in one hand, a roll of tape in the other. He’s in the middle of taping one of the flyers to the door. He’s in his late thirties, a slim, soft sandy-haired man with a corporate haircut and jeans that look awkward with his leather shoes.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
Sofia presses past me and looks down at the man. “Oh—my—God. You’re pathetic,” she says in a tone I can imagine terrifying any number of eighth graders. “Where’s Olive? Did you make the nanny stay late so you could come here? Pathetic.”
“Is this your ex?” I ask Sofia.
“Do you know?” he asks me, a little grin on his thin lips. He stands up. He’s a head taller than me. His voice is a low baritone.
“Know what?”
“She’s a whore.” He points at Sofia. “Has she told you? Do you know?” His eyes are wild. Under the polo shirt, his breath comes fast and furious. He shuffles through the flyers in his hands, showing them to me one at a time. “This is her. See? Here.” He points to the woman. She’s straddling a man, and I realize the photo is of Sofia, taken by someone peeking in through the space left open at the edge of the closed blinds. The photo shocks me, all of Sofia’s bare skin and breasts and hair pixelated in this cheesy grayscale flyer. “See?” He points again, flips through photos. He says, “See? Here’s her with—See?” Now he shows me a photo of Sofia with a woman, their bodies a tangle of breasts and hair on the same bed as the photo with the man. It must be her own bedroom.
I turn to Sofia, who looks grim. “What’s going on? Why does he have these? You want me to call the cops?”
Charles pages through the flyers, obsessive, frantic. “You like this one?” He shoves it into my face, rubs the paper across my cheek.
I smack it away. “You’re gonna want to back the fuck off, Abercrombie.”
“Charles, look,” Sofia begins in a hostage negotiation tone.
“Shut—up.” He backhands her across the cheek with a sharp crack. She stumbles back into the wall.
My vision goes white. I kick his feet out from under him and shove him hard. He hits the ground shoulder-first with a grunt. I drop onto him with a knee in his kidney and grab his right arm, pull it up behind him. He lets out a yelp of pain.
“Jazz, stop,” Sofia cries, scrambling up from the floor.
“Call the cops. I got dipshit covered.” He thrashes, tries to buck me off. I don’t have weight advantage, so I lie on top of him and crook my elbow around his throat in a rear naked choke. “I will put you to fucking sleep,” I tell him. His body writhes and struggles against me. I grip my left bicep with my right hand and tighten my hold on his neck. His chin is hot and scratchy on my forearm. He stops squirming and starts to go limp.
“Jazz, stop!” Sofia yanks at my shoulders, tries to get me off him.
“What is wrong with you? I’m fine. Call the fucking cops!”
“Let him go,” she begs.
“Why?”
“Jazz!”
I release my hold and push up off him. He gasps for breath and gets his arms underneath him. He shakes his head like a wet dog and gets unsteadily to his feet. I’m ready for him to come at me swinging, but instead he turns on Sofia. “Mistake,” he snarls, and then he turns and strides down the hallway.
“What the fuck?” I breathe.
“It’s fine,” Sofia says, to me or to herself, I can’t tell.
“It’s not fine. Is he stalking you? Photographing you? We have to call the cops. They won’t believe you if you don’t call them right away.” I step forward, try to touch her face where he hit her.
She backs away. Her eyes are fixed on the images taped to the door. “You need to leave.” She starts pulling the pictures down savagely, her fingernails tearing at the paper.
I try to put my hands on her waist. “Hey. Come on. What—”
“Just go!” She pushes me off.
The rejection hurts so much worse than it would if she had actually hit me the way Charles had hit her. That would be a relief, the pain that only lasts a minute. That’s the kind of pain I can handle.
FRIDAY
18
JAZZ
CARLOS SEES I’M in a mood and kindly schedules the last three hours of my shift in the dairy case. I pull my fleece jacket and gloves out of my locker in the back room and let myself into the walk-in fridge. I focus on hefting plastic crates full of milk and juice, checking expiration dates and pulling soon-to-expire cartons off the shelves. My breath comes in foggy puffs and my muscles ache and then burn, but I lift the cases higher, harder. There’s something comforting about this work, about the expenditure of energy and strength, the pure exertion with no thought except organization. I don’t want to think about
Sofia. I don’t want to remember her cold, hard tone telling me to leave. I don’t want to think about Joaquin, or Carol.
It’s not until Kevin lets himself in an hour later that I drag myself out of my reverie. He’s a beautiful light-skinned black man twenty years older than me with a soft, scary voice and shocking clear blue eyes.
“Cool if I smoke in here?” Kevin asks, ever the gentleman.
I gesture to the corner underneath the whirring vent fan. “Go ahead.”
He starts to roll a cigarette using his pouch of tobacco. He sprinkles white powder into it from a tiny plastic bag and lights up. He blows the smoke up into the fan while I use my box cutter to open a case of vanilla yogurt. He takes a few hits and offers it to me. “You want?”
“I’m good, but thanks.”
“You heard about the serial killer?”
It knocks me off my groove, and I drop a carton of milk to the floor. As I retrieve it, I say, “Of course. Who hasn’t?”
“Some crazy shit.”
“Crazy,” I agree. I pull my gloves off so I can get the small containers of yogurt out of the case. He blows meditative smoke rings up into the fan.
One of the glass doors opens, and a woman calls inside, “Do you have fat-free half-and-half?”
I call out, “Yes, ma’am. It’s to your left on the second shelf.”
“Can someone please just help me?”
“One sec.” I pull a carton of the precious fat-free half-and-half off the second shelf. I walk through the storeroom, through the swinging back-room doors, and out onto the sales floor. I find her huffily checking her Apple watch. She’s a middle-aged woman with a side-swept blond bob everyone calls the “I’d like to speak to the manager” haircut. I hand her the half-and-half. “Here ya go.”
“You should put it on display so people don’t have to ask for it.” She places the carton in her packed cart, which she’s parked right in the middle of the aisle.
Another woman just like her tries to get her cart past and can’t. She says, “Excuse me. You’re blocking the aisle.”
“Excuse me. I’m in the middle of a conversation.”
“Excuse me, but others need to get by you.”
I press my lips together, my first smile of the day fighting to escape.
The original woman succumbs to the pressure of twenty watching sets of eyes; it’s rush hour and the store is shoulder-to-shoulder packed. From the front, a flurry of bells rings over and over again. Carryout, return, price check. No wonder Kevin’s hiding.
I retreat to my cold cave of milk and eggs. “I just saw two moms throw down over a carton of half-and-half,” I tell Kevin. My pocket buzzes. It’s not my iPhone; it’s the flip phone in my left pocket.
Kevin watches me get it out, stubbing his cigarette out on his shoe. “Fucking 2005 or what?”
“Yeah, 2005, when you started getting your senior discount,” I retort, and he laughs on his way out.
I flip the phone open. “Hello?”
The voice says, “Jazz, are you alone?”
“I’m in the dairy case at work. No one can hear me, but it’s not exactly private.”
“What time do you get off?”
“Four.”
“Can you page us in the car before you go home?” The tone is different than usual, not quite as calm.
“Sure. Everything all right? I thought you were going to call me tonight?”
“We’ve gotten your reassignment, but we need to move quickly. If I understand your schedule correctly, you’re free tonight, correct?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“We’ve given you some additional items for tonight’s assignment. You’ll find a box up by your punching bag when you get home.”
When I hang up, I get my iPhone out and stare at it for the twentieth time today. No messages from Sofia. No missed calls.
I hesitate, and then I open up text messages and compose one to her.
I’m really sorry about last night.
I hit Send.
I remember Sofia begging me to get off Charles. I hadn’t listened. I’d just plowed forward like I always do, stubborn and stupid and thoughtless. Look at me. I’m a mess, covered in tattoos, never been to college, a crew member at Trader Joe’s, with a shitty apartment and an even shittier truck. It’s no wonder someone like Sofia doesn’t want me. What was I thinking? Did I really think I could date her? Am I going to pick her up for dinner in my fucking gardener’s truck? It was a hookup for her. That’s it.
Three little dots appear by her name. I hold my breath.
The three dots vanish, but no words appear. I wait. The screen goes dark. I poke at it. Nothing.
I throw my phone across the cooler. It clatters down between the boxes. I press my forehead into my hands and take a breath. It’s okay. I’ve been rejected before, and I’m sure I’ll be rejected again. It doesn’t have to hurt this much. I would do anything, give anything, to keep it from hurting this much.
* * *
I feel ridiculous and conspicuous as I walk through the underground parking garage looking for space thirty-two in a flowered muumuu, socks, sandals, a gray wig and a fanny pack—the additional “items” they mentioned earlier. This apartment building reminds me of Sofia’s. No. Stop. I’m not thinking about Sofia right now. One thing at a time.
The yellow syringe of death is tucked into my fanny pack along with the playing card and flip phone. On my way over here, I stopped at a gas station in Hollywood, where I put on a pair of latex gloves and rubbed the playing card on every surface, even the inside of the urinal, to get as many strangers’ DNA on it as possible, since I’m doing this murder in a relatively clean place. I thought this was a smart idea. Go, shady murder club.
I find the parking space and tuck myself behind a nearby pillar. I pull the flip phone out of my fanny pack. I page the 800 number, enter my six-digit code and wait.
The phone buzzes. I answer it by saying, “Do you make everyone dress up like old people, or are you trying to humiliate me in particular?”
The voice chuckles. “The only person who will see you will be dead in minutes. I’m more concerned with your exit strategy than your appearance. Tell me about your plans to get out of there when you’re done.”
“There’s a gate to the pedestrian walkway about...like...” I measure the distance with my eyes. “It’s five parking spaces away from me. Fifty feet or so.”
“Does it seem safe?”
I survey the parking structure. The fluorescent lights illuminate the tinted windows of the expensive cars. “I mean, worst case, someone sees me walk out afterward, right? I’m in disguise and I don’t know anyone around here anyway.”
“That’s what we think, too. And, Jasmine...”
“Yes?”
“We need you to make this work. This is a dangerous man. Be careful. We’re counting on you.”
“He’s a bad one?”
“Very. Remember, as soon as you complete your assignment, Carol will be added into the queue. You’re almost there. You’re so close.”
“Okay. Good. This is good.”
“Are you ready?”
I take a breath. “Totally. I’m ready.”
I get off the phone, tuck it back into the fanny pack and pull a pair of latex gloves over my hands. I get the syringe out of its plastic container and squat with my back to the pillar and my thumb on the depressor. The needle is a bright silver snake, slender and silken in the gray-blue light.
Headlights flash. My heart skips beats. They flicker along the wall in front of me and fade as the car turns a corner.
Not him.
Silence. Dank concrete air.
I pull the playing card out of its baggie. Should I drop it now? Or should I wait until after I inject him?
After, I decide. I slip it back into i
ts plastic bag.
Headlights, brighter than before. My heart palpitates again. This time, the lights slow as they approach, casting shadows onto the wall, and the car turns toward me. I could reach out and touch the passenger’s side door as it slides into space thirty-two. It’s a silver Lexus, brand-new with dealer plates.
I’m frozen. I don’t think I can do it.
A voice from my past trickles into my thoughts, a girl I dated a few years ago. She was watching me work out on the roof with a cigarette between her red lips. “What are you freaking training for?” She laughed, making fun of the intensity with which I attacked the punching bag.
I just said, “Life.” I didn’t know it, but I was training for this. This moment.
I grip the syringe in my right hand. Thumb on the depressor.
Maybe this is what my life has been leading up to. Maybe all this shit I’ve been through has been preparation for this ultimate act of sacrifice and protection, for me to be able to do for Joaquin what most other mothers could never do for their children. The thought makes me swell up with pride.
The Lexus’s driver’s door opens. A tall silhouette makes shadows against the overhead lights.
I creep around the front of the car, duck down and hide in front of the bumper. His back is to me. He pulls a bag out of the back seat, drapes it over his shoulder, turns to close the driver’s side door, and the light catches his face.
It’s Charles. It’s fucking Charles. Sofia’s ex.
Oh no.
Why am I being sent after Sofia’s ex? Who wants him dead?
Who the hell do you think? I scream at myself inside my head.
For a second, I’m excited. I want to kill him. I remember the slap of his hand hitting Sofia’s cheek. I remember the pictures.
But no. Wait. I’m supposed to kill a stranger. I’ll be a suspect if I kill Charles. I’ll get caught.
He turns and walks toward the elevator. Where my heart used to be, an empty hole filled with panic and fear carves itself into my chest.
What do I do? What do I do?