by Tiya Rayne
“Ms. Parks,” the principal begins in that tone as if he’s talking down to a child. “The school has a zero-violence policy. I’m sure Mrs. Tillman has explained this to you.” He nods toward Emory’s teacher, sitting at the back of the office. She’s the only person in the room at the moment who’s safe from me beating their ass.
“But not a zero bullying one?” I question. “Seems a little backwards to me.”
Before the principal can answer, the blonde-haired woman beside me opens her mouth. “She fractured his nose and broke his jaw, leaving him unconscious on the floor. My son will have to have surgery because of her. The little savage needs to be put out of school.”
I turn to her and she has the right mind to lean as far away from me as possible. “Your son needs to be in jail. Not only has he tormented my child for weeks since she came to this school, but the little pervert violated her.”
The woman gasps like I’ve said something wrong. “He did no such thing.”
“He yanked down her skirt as if it were a joke, then pinned her to the floor and sat on her chest.”
“That doesn’t make him a pervert,” the little boy’s father argues.
“If you can’t read the early signs of a sex offender that’s your problem. I hope his future first victim sues the hell out of you.”
The father’s face turns bright red. He knows I’m right. That kid has been a terror to mine from day one. First it was name calling, I can deal with a dipshit kid calling my child a name. I taught her to ignore it, but once the other stuff started happening—like him cutting a hole in her jacket—that’s when I drew the line.
“Jason will be punished for his actions, but Emory needs to know violence isn’t the answer,” Principal Holland says.
It takes all of me not to show him how much violence solves things. Thank goodness Grams isn’t here. She probably would’ve dragged everyone in here around this office a few times. Even at the ripe age of eighty, Grams will still throw hands.
“Mr. Holland, you’re not a father. I understand you actually believe what you’re saying. However, I’m going to teach you a little about parenting. What that boy did.” I point to his parents to represent him. “Violated my daughter’s right to feel safe. She came to me and her teacher several times to complain about Jason.”
“She did,” Mrs. Tillman replies, making sure to give Mr. Holland a bold look. Emory’s teacher had been a godsend in all this. She’d tried on numerous occasions to talk to the principal about that boy and each time no further actions were taken.
“I left it in your hands to deal with it.” I go on to say. “You dropped the ball. If you want to be honest, her actions are because of you. She defended herself, and if you can’t see that or why it was necessary, I think maybe I need to take this above you.”
His face reddens even more. He hasn’t liked me from the day I registered Emory in this private school. They have a pearly white reputation, and my little brown child is definitely not wanted. However, not even he can deny her test scores or the hefty tuition I pay semi-annually.
“That won’t be necessary,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m sure we can come to an appropriate agreement.”
“Now wait a second, Earl.” Jason’s father jumps to his feet. “That girl should not be among the other students. She’s violent and she has that problem,” he says the word problem like it’s nasty.
I scoff at the asshole. “And what problem is that? Is it the fact she’s mute or is this the problem of her skin tone?”
“Please, you people always flip things to make it sound racist,” the mother argues.
“Well, in this instance your husband is either racist or an insensitive jackass to believe because my child can’t speak, she’s somehow beneath your little disrespectful, knuckle dragging son. So, which one is it? I want to make sure I get it right for when I add this visit to the school’s website later.”
Both parents look to each other, a silent conversation passes between them before the husband takes a seat. Just as I thought.
“Ms. Parks,” Mr. Holland starts, but I’m done with this conversation.
“Look, Monday, Emory will be in class. I’ll give you a day, only because she deserves a break from school after whooping his ass. Now on her records, it will read absent and not suspended. And furthermore, I want him out of her class. If I have to come back to this school to deal with him again, I will take our story to Channel 7, maybe they can help me get this across to you better.”
I grab my purse off the ground at my feet and stand. Mr. Holland rises too. “Have a great day.” I smile, then turn and storm out of the office.
It was the nicest I could be right now. I’m sick and tired of this school and its bullshit. And the nerve of that guy, to act like because Emory doesn’t talk, she shouldn’t be allowed in class with his little future rapist.
I calm down as much as I can before heading back to the front of the office, where I find Emory. At only eight-years-old the kid has faced more in her life than any of those stuck up rich brats in her classroom.
She looks up from the book she’s reading and finds me with her gaze. I swear, this kid could track me no matter where I go. She has a sixth sense when it comes to knowing who’s around her—even when you think she doesn’t.
She smiles when she sees me. I give her one back.
“Ready to go?”
She nods, before placing her book back in her bag and grabbing her things. She’s quiet until we get in the car. The moment we’re inside she starts typing away on her tablet.
“Are you angry with me?” the computerized voice says from the backseat.
“Of course not,” I answer, turning to look at her. “I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself.”
She smiles, showing off that one dimple and her bright brown eyes sparkle, before she looks back down in her lap. She’s typing again.
“Am I suspended?” She looks up once the question is asked.
“No, but you won’t go back to school tomorrow. Not because of anything you did,” I say, cutting off her worry. “But because I think you deserve to sleep in this Friday.”
Her face lights up with another one-dimpled smile before she types again.
“I tried to do like you said, and ignore him, but Grams said they wouldn’t stop until I put my foot up their ass.”
“Emory, bad word,” I admonish halfheartedly. I’m pretty sure she’s only repeating Grams’ words verbatim.
I back out of my parking space and head toward my shop.
She’s quiet again, she has those moments often. Where most kids around her age I’ve run into can’t seem to stop talking, Emory is completely the opposite.
I glance into the rearview mirror. She’s watching the traffic as it passes us by, the pinch in her little brow tells me she’s thinking over something hard.
“What’s on your mind?”
She looks up at me, meeting my eyes before typing on her tablet.
“Will the bad people find out?”
I sigh glancing back at the road. “Sweetie, I’ve told you, you are legally mine now. You don’t have to fear social workers anymore.” I check the mirror, hoping to find my words have comforted her, but as always there’s still a haunted look in her eyes.
I don’t know what demons my daughter faced in her past, but as her mother now, it’s my job to make sure she never faces them alone again.
“How about we go and grab some ice cream before we head back to the store?”
That gets a smile from her and a thumbs up. I’d do anything to see that smile on her face.
We head to the other side of town toward my bookstore.
Chapter 2
Jack o’ Lantern
Seth
* * *
My speakers blare classical music throughout the room. I’m trying to recreate an artistic atmosphere, since Lucien is always saying I need another outlet. I turn my head left then right, trying to get a good view of the bea
utiful art I’ve created.
The whimpering starts to get to me again. I growl and roll my eyes.
“Will you shut the fuck up, I’m trying to create a masterpiece here.” I look to the soon to be dead naked man tied upside down by his feet, hanging from my ceiling, his colleague’s severed ball sacks duct taped in his mouth. His nude castrated crony is hanging beside him, but he’s quiet now.
The man, Herbo the Horrible as he’s known in his country, continues to whimper, throwing off my concentration again. I put my small blades down in the glass of alcohol. I may be a killer, but I’m a clean one. I walk over to Herbo and smack him in the face.
“I don’t understand men like you. How many kill orders have you and your partner administered? How many countless innocent lives have you destroyed on a whim? Yet, when it’s your turn, you can’t handle it.”
He starts to cry again. I shake my head at him in disgust as I go back to my blades. They always cry. I guess they think the sight of their tears will deter me.
“I usually prefer bigger blades,” I explain to Herbo. “My Bowie is my absolute favorite.” I pick up the smaller one out of the alcohol solution. “But nothing works better than my Gerber, when I want to set my creative side free.”
I go back over to Herbo’s buddy, who’s near death. Using the small knife, I finish carving out the image in his chest and stomach. I step back, amazed at my handy work.
“What do you think?” I ask Herbo, studying the Jack-o’-lantern I carved on his friend. “I think the smile is a little lopsided, but he did move a lot so it isn’t all my fault.”
The strong scent of piss assails my senses.
“Damnit,” I yell at him. “You pissed yourself again?” I toss my small blade to my workstation before marching over to him dangling from the ceiling. Herbo starts to cry harder.
I pull my favorite Bowie out of the holster at my back. I grab his flaccid cock and in one swift move, I sever the appendage from him and toss it to the floor. The muffled scream that follows drowns out my Mozart.
“Hey, don’t get angry with me. I warned you last time, if you pissed again, I would cut it off.” His body shakes and rattles the chains.
I walk back over to my table and pick up the blow torch. I hold it up against the meat cleaver I always keep on my workstation, until the metal turns orange, then go back to Herbo and cauterize the wound.
“We can’t have you dying from blood loss before I get to have my fun with you.”
I place my things back on my workstation and head back over to his partner. Squatting in front of the man’s head, I check his pulse. Damn it.
“You made me miss it. I didn’t get to see him take his last breath. You’re going to pay for that,” I say to Herbo who starts to whimper again.
The intercom system starts to make a familiar beeping sound. I groan right before the screen on the back wall lights up and Lucien’s face appears.
“I’m busy, brother.”
“Are you still working on those two?”
“Obviously.” I point to the two men hanging upside down from the ceiling.
The space between my brother’s brows creases. He isn’t happy with me. I shrug.
“Seth, you have to hurry up. Kill them and come on. This is taking too long.”
This has me put the knife I’m examining down. I look up into the screen.
“If you don’t like the way I handle business, you can come and do it.” Lately he seems to have less and less tolerance for my way of killing. Or should I say, less and less tolerance for me.
It started not long after Hawk left. I noticed the change in Lucien. He’s pulling away from me, from the job. I fear he’s getting the same itch Hawk had. After we buried Rose yesterday, it has gotten worse.
“Just hurry up.” The screen goes black.
I turn to Herbo. “What do you think that was about?”
He stares back at me with wide frightened eyes. I don’t think he’s going to answer.
I sigh. I’m a little disappointed in him. I’ve been keeping him company this entire time, and when I need him, he isn’t there for me.
“I guess I have to make this quick.”
I pick up my Bowie and march over to him. He starts to fight against his chains like a fish on a hook. I stab the knife into his stomach, twisting it, then carve it down toward his neck. He bleeds out quickly, spraying me and the mirrored walls with blood.
The kill is quick and less satisfying than I like, but I’m able to watch the life fade from his eyes, so there’s a plus. I place my knives back into their black carrying case. All except the Bowie. That one stays with me at all times.
I pull out my cellphone and press the number one. Someone picks up and there’s rustling in the background, but no one says hello.
“I’d like to place an order,” I say into the silence.
A female replies, “How many will be at your table?”
“Two,” I answer and then hang up the phone. The cleanup crew will be here in a few minutes to dispose of these bodies.
I look at my handy work and smile. The killing fog has released me and I can think straight again. I guess it’s on to the next job. They say if you do what you love, you never work a day in your life. Well, I fucking love what I do.
Chapter 3
Gram Is Here
Malia
* * *
I hold the door to my shop open for Emory as she walks in while she finishes her ice cream cone.
“Hey, Tiana,” I call out to my assistant manager at MP’s Books and More. Tiana has been my best friend since high school and when I decided to open my little bookstore, I brought her along with me.
Books and More is my dream come true. Honestly, I never had to work a day in my life. When my parents died, they left me with a hefty inheritance.
Yet Grams never touched the money when I was growing up. She had her own money from her old job. Apparently, she retired well.
After working in the public library system for five years myself, I decided to use some of my inheritance to open up my dream store. They say if you love what you do, you never work a day. Well, I truly love what I do.
“Lil’ Mama, what are you doing out of school so early?” Tiana asks as soon as she spots Emory.
Emory signs quickly. “I got into a fight today.”
“Was it that little punk, Jason boy?”
Emory nods.
Tiana kisses her teeth. “Good, I hope you kicked him in the balls.”
“Tiana,” I warn. She laughs. I turn to Emory. “Go have a seat. Grams will be here soon to pick you up.”
Tiana and I both watch as my daughter finds her favorite spot by the gas fireplace in the center of the store. She places her bookbag at her feet and grabs her book out. Emory may not share any biological connection to me, but the kid definitely loves to read like me.
“I worry about her,” I say, turning back to Tiana.
“She’s your daughter. You’re going to always worry about her.”
I lift a brow. “You know what I mean. She beat that kid unconscious, broke his nose and jaw.”
Tiana’s eyes grow large. She places a hand to her chest. “Was it as bad as the other little boy?”
I look over to Emory. Her head is down, and her braids cover her face.
“Not as bad as that one,” I say, giving Tiana my attention again.
“Well,” she starts. “That’s a good thing, right? It shows growth.”
I shake my head at my best friend. She is so optimistic. However, she’s right. The last time some little boy bullied Emory, she nearly fractured his skull.
It took three teachers, a principal, and the janitor to get her off the kid. And she wouldn’t calm down until I showed up. The girl has a mean streak, when provoked it can cause her to be a tyrant. I can only imagine what she must have gone through that caused her to be this way.
“I worry about her.” I sigh. “The social worker who suggested her to me said she may take a
while to adjust. I wish I could do more.”
“Lia, you’re doing enough.” Tiana places a hand on my shoulder. “You took that little girl in when most people turned her away. You love her and you show it to her in every way possible. She may not say it, but when she looks at you, there’s nothing but love in her eyes. Emory adores you.”
Looking back over to Emory, I find her watching me. Those light brown eyes are focused directly on me. When she’s looking at me like this—with so much intensity in her stare—I forget she’s only a child. There are moments when Emory looks as if she’s lived a lifetime.
I know she had a rough life before ending up in foster care. Physically there’s no reason Emory shouldn’t be able to talk. She just doesn’t. And if that isn’t a sign of her rough past, the nightmares that wake her all throughout the night and the rage she unleashes on those bullies are all signs something drastic changed this kid.
I smile at her. She returns one of her dimpled ones to me, before going back to her book. Sometimes, I think that’s all she wants from me, a smile.
“By the way,” Tiana says as I tune back in. “You got another one of those letters.”
I huff. It seems I have a secret admirer or stalker. I can’t determine which yet.
“Have you opened it?”
She shakes her head. “No, but it has the same smell as the other ones. Are you going to report it to the police now?”
“What am I going to say? I’m feeling threatened by sweet smelling letters with old library catalog cards inside?”
Tiana laughs. “Still, what if this person suddenly turns violent. What then?”
“I highly doubt it. It seems like someone with a lot of time on their hands,” I say. “I’m heading to the back, keep an eye on her, please.”
Tiana nods and I head to my office in the back of my three- story shop. I enter the large, cluttered room, in its corners are stacks of books in dire need of relocation. I find the white envelope with my name written across the front.