: Chapter 11

Well. Last night was more fun than I expected.

No, not David. I took him to a club and promptly ditched him there. He’s a good-looking guy, in a wannabe survivalist kind of way. I’m sure he made out fine. Better than he would have if he’d stuck with me, anyway. I was starting to fantasize about ripping off his hands and shoving them down his throat.

But Kaplan?

Now that was fun.

Seeing him across the room was like standing on the edge of a chasm filled with things I’ve never felt. Electricity resonated in my chest every time I met his gaze. My core coiled and ached whenever we caught one another in a stolen glance. There was murder in Kaplan’s eyes when David touched my back where my deepest scars rest. I’m not sure why I looked at him then, or why warmth flooded my veins when he saw me flinch and his grip tightened on his glass. And then our brief encounter outside? My heart rioted behind my ribs. I warred between wanting to spill his blood or tear off his clothes and fuck him right there on the patio.

And I think he felt the same.

Maybe part of him does want me after all. I still can’t quite connect the pull I thought I felt between us at Deja Brew with the abysmal meeting a few short hours later in Kaplan’s office. I’ve replayed it so many times in perfect clarity, and yet I still can’t identify what I misunderstood. Since I revisited the first time I met Samuel, I’ve been able to reset and distance myself from obsessing about it. But last night, I’m sure I saw his darkness come to the surface, the veil between it and the real world thinning with every drink he took. That beast is hungry. Wild. Maybe even protective of what it thinks is his, though Kaplan’s rational mind keeps it pinned in a cage.

And nothing will rattle that cage more than denial and jealousy.

I smile as I replay blowing a kiss to Kaplan, savoring the aromatic steam of my espresso as I sit by the window in Grindstone. Conveniently, the coffee shop is just across the street from the upscale Mosaic Nail Salon, where Cynthia Nordstrom has an appointment in eighteen minutes. I glance at the entrance before turning my attention back to my laptop, rereading the information on her upcoming appointments. In keeping with his usual computer wizardry, Samuel has gained access to the Praetorian client calendars and retrieved Cynthia’s information. “More to come. Trying other systems. It will take time,” his message said. I’m excited to see what else he will dig up, but for now the calendar is a significant win.

So here I am, waiting in a blonde wig, drinking what I can confirm is the best espresso in town. Kaplan is right about Grindstone. How irritating. It irritates me more that my thoughts keep pulling back to him, when I should be focused on the notes I stole from his laptop the other night. There isn’t much here I didn’t already know about Caron Berger aside from a detailed list of the many criminal offenses Legio Agni is under investigation for—from counseling its members to commit crimes to tax evasion and a host of liabilities in between. Kaplan’s theories on Berger’s motivations are buried in the margins. Probable childhood trauma. Feelings of isolation. A savior complex intertwined with narcissism that’s worsened by his ability to surround himself with people he can manipulate. He’s adept at using his charisma to create a sense of community and false safety. But the information I was really hoping for isn’t here. I want to know who Caron Berger truly is—the real man, not the phantom. He stays so well-hidden only a handful of people in his innermost circle even know what he looks like.

And Cynthia Nordstrom is one of those people.

A black SUV with tinted windows rolls to a stop outside Mosaic and I text the plate number to Samuel in code, though as the passenger door opens, I already know the thread will lead back to Praetorian. I recognize the man who steps out as one of the bodyguards I saw leaving the building on Tropane. His gaze shifts around the street before he moves to the rear of the vehicle and opens the door for Cynthia. Her perfect blonde bob lifts in the breeze, a Birkin bag tucked tight against her body as she walks into the nail salon. I drain my espresso, pack my laptop, and head across the street.

I’ve taken great pains to get the right look today that will appeal to Cynthia’s discerning eye for a little lamb that would fit with Caron’s flock. I call today’s mask “Melancholy Moneyed Lamb Chop.” My makeup is light and fresh, but I keep my expression a little subdued. I’ve got a low-calorie wheatgrass smoothie in a transparent reusable cup with a silicone straw because I’m both health conscious and environmentally responsible. I’m in new activewear and my Coach bag is expensive, because this lamb chop might be lonely but at least I’ve got money. I look nonthreatening because I’m often labeled as “too thin,” which people seem to synonymize with “sad” or “weak,” when in reality that’s just what happens when you spend the first fourteen years of your life malnourished in a desert cult. And now it plays well into my long-game disguise to keep it that way. Bria Brooks? She couldn’t possibly kill a man with a single punch.

Looks are, indeed, deceiving. And hopefully my looks today will deceive Cynthia.

I pass the bodyguard who’s stationed himself outside the door and enter Mosaic, the scent of nail lacquer and acetone wafting on the steady whirl of the air filtration system. Cynthia is at the reception counter, and another woman is waiting in line between us. The space beyond them is pristine, with rose-gold accents and muted floral arrangements adorning the quartz counters of the manicure stations. Quilted white chairs line the walls, several women scattered among them receiving pedicure treatments. I resist the urge to shudder. I’m not looking forward to being touched by strangers but I’ll roll with it for a chance to get close to Cynthia.

Another receptionist joins the desk and takes the details of the next client in line as Cynthia is directed to a manicure station at one of two long, narrow tables. As I check in, I watch her look at the other women in the room. Some are here with friends; others don’t fit her target demographic of potential new recruits. I avert my gaze as her head turns in my direction.

After I’m checked in for my mani-pedi, a nail tech then leads me to the seat next to Cynthia. I set my bag down and settle in my chair before catching her eye with a polite smile. I’ve never been this close to her and my heart trills with excitement, though I keep my sweet, melancholy mask in place. Cynthia gives me a quick scan with her green eyes and grins.

“Good morning,” she says in a smooth, honeyed voice. “My name’s Cynthia. Looks like we’re going to be station buddies. What’s your name?”

“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m Neriah.”

“What a pretty name. I don’t think I’ve heard it before.”

I cast my eyes down with a demure smile. “Thank you. My father was an evangelical preacher. It’s one of those old-school biblical names that you don’t hear around very often.”

Cynthia’s smile grows a touch warmer. “Really? What does it mean?”

“Lamp of the Lord,” I say with a little laugh. “Maybe he forgot to change the bulb.”

Cynthia laughs in reply. “Didn’t stick with the church?”

“Not so much, no.” I mix a little sadness into my smile and turn away as our nail techs ask details about what colors and designs we’d both like. When they start working on our hands, I turn my attention back to Cynthia. “What are you going for today?”

“Kind of a seasonal, early autumn theme,” she replies, using her free hand to bring up a photo on her phone of a complex design of flowers in fall colors. “You?”

“Just short and crimson. I’d love to do something like yours but I teach yoga and I’d probably end up stabbing myself in the eye.”

A light laugh flows past Cynthia’s lips. “You teach yoga? I’ve always wanted to try it but I also don’t want to look incompetent in front of people who know what they’re doing.”

“Let me let you in on a little yogi secret. No one knows what they’re doing. Like, ever, inside or outside the studio. We’re all just faking it ‘til we make it.” I smile and give her a little shrug. “Though I don’t know about you, you look like you’ve made it.”

Cynthia blows out a long breath, her eyes brightening with the compliment. “Well, I don’t know about that. It’s been a process, that’s for sure. But I’ve been lucky to have a lot of support from other women.” I nod, looking down at my nails as I cultivate an expression that says I’m such a lost and lonely little lamb, Cynthia. “What does your preacher father think of you being a yogi?”

My groan carries an edge of bitterness. “You’ll be shocked to hear he hates it. But it’s helping me to find some peace, you know?”

“Yeah,” Cynthia says. “I get that.”

The thrill of being so close to my newest prize is the only thing that keeps my irritation at bay for having to suffer through this small talk and nail situation as our manicures progress. I ask Cynthia a few questions about her line of work, and she describes her role as the senior VP of a health and wellness company, but I don’t ask anything too prying that would get her hackles up. I give her some fake details on my history when she asks, pulling from the backstory I’ve created. Wealthy parents. Hints of religious trauma. A sprinkle of shaky confidence as I describe wanting to take a break from undergraduate studies to “find myself.” Every tiny detail is like a drop of paint on a canvas. If I add too much color, Cynthia might spot the story as a lie. But if I give her just enough, she’ll fill in the picture and paint me into the person she wants to see. Hopefully one who’s the perfect fit for Legio Agni.

Eventually, we move along to the pedicure chairs, which is a new kind of torture, but my suffering is thankfully rewarded later when we both pay at reception. A caring smile lights Cynthia’s feature as she takes her receipt. “You know what Neriah, I think you might enjoy my women’s group.”

Fucking finally. “Oh? What is the group for?”

“Basically, it’s a community of like-minded ladies who encourage and empower each other to live our truths through health, well-being, and mindfulness,” Cynthia says, almost as though she’s reciting corporate propaganda.

“You know, I think that’s just the kind of thing I need. And if you want, I’d be happy to teach a beginner’s yoga class. Just to like…contribute.”

Cynthia beams as we head toward the doors. “That would be wonderful. Here, let me give you my number.” I open up my contacts on my burner phone, already loaded with fake numbers just in case, and I hand it to Cynthia. “We usually meet at six every second Saturday, and the location often changes. I’ll text you the details,” Cynthia says as she taps out her contact information.

“Awesome, thanks so much. As long as I don’t have a conflict with classwork, I’ll be there. I can send you some guidance for what to wear, but I’ll bring the mats,” I reply as I send her a message with my fake last name to complete the exchange. When she invariably looks me up later, she’ll find everything she needs to fill in the painting of Neriah Cameron, Melancholy Moneyed Lambchop, and potential new recruit.

We say our goodbyes as Cynthia’s bodyguard gives me a quick dismissive glance, and then she’s off, speeding away to her three o’clock meeting with a supplements distributor. I watch with a farewell wave before I head to my condo with a triumphant smile. After a quick change, I walk to campus to pick up my car and then head directly to Cedar Ridge where I find Samuel reading in the common room.

“Bria.”

“Uncle.”

“How was the party?” he asks as I kiss his cheeks.

“Lovely. Edward appreciated the gesture. You didn’t have to go to such lengths.”

“Bah,” he says with a wave. “Edward is the only one who smuggles Pont Neuf in when he comes, unlike some visitors.”

I smile and his eyes glint beneath the film of age. “You’re not supposed to drink wine.”

“I’m an old man. I can do as I please.”

“You always have.”

“Indeed,” Samuel says as he motions for me to bring his wheelchair closer. “How was the nail salon?”

“Very productive, thank you. I even made a new friend. I’ve been invited to a women’s group, which will help me ‘live my truth,’” I say with air quotes as Samuel rolls his eyes with a snort. “It’s been a good day.”

Samuel’s expression turns diabolical. “It’s about to get better.”

“Is that so.”

“Yes. We’re going to have a pillow fight.”

I laugh as I take hold of Samuel’s elbow, lowering him into his wheelchair. A murderous glimmer reflects in his smoky eyes when I give him a dark grin. “A pillow fight. Really.”

“Yes. We haven’t had such a game for a long time,” he replies as I wheel him toward the polished floor of the empty hallway leading to his room.

I lean over Samuel’s shoulder to whisper in his ear. “That’s because your little game might land us both in jail.”

“Nonsense,” Samuel grumbles, waving a hand in my direction to shoo me away. I notice the slightest tremor in his fingers. He’s tired. His age is creeping in. I know I’m powerless to stop time, but I still loathe the evidence of its inescapable grip.

We turn into Samuel’s room and I push him toward his desk, knowing this is where he’ll want to go. “Who is it?”

“Richard Piston”

I bark a laugh. “Dick Piston? Are you serious? He deserves it for that name alone. What did he do?”

“He stole my shoes.”

“Doesn’t that happen daily in places like this? Do you kill everyone who steals your things?”

“Yes.”

“Fair point.”

“He also said I shouldn’t be playing with computers. Those are for kids. Ageist prick.”

“Yes, that’s a little uncalled for.” I sit on the edge of the bed and watch as Samuel logs into his computer and starts typing, his fingers moving with a musician’s precision. There’s no need to ask what he’s doing, I already know, and we don’t waste words between us. He’s taking over the security cameras, and likely creating a diversion with the front desk computers to occupy the staff.

“Room eighteen. He always naps at this time. He’s asleep now.” Samuel locks his computer screen and pulls open a drawer in his desk, reaching in to release a hidden compartment. He removes two pairs of leather gloves and a pre-filled syringe of SUX, stuffing the capped needle under his leg. He lays his phone in his lap, the cameras feeding through on its screen, then motions for me to come forward as he slips on one pair of gloves. “I’ll inject, you keep him quiet. The dose will paralyze but he’ll remain awake. I want him to hear me. Then you will finish it.”

I let go of a deep sigh as I cross my arms and we stare at one another. “This seems reckless. What happened to ‘kill every risk that would kill you first’?”

“The risks have been mitigated,” he replies, waving his phone in the air as though it’s a sufficient explanation. My eyebrows climb and he fixes me with a hard glare. “I can set off any alarm, any piece of critical equipment to divert staff away. Besides, they’ll be busy preparing for dinner and the evening medication dispensary.”

“Perhaps being at Cedar Ridge isn’t so good for you after all, Samuel. It’s as though you’ve suddenly discovered fast food and now you’re addicted. We’re not exactly going for cheeseburgers, you know.” Samuel’s glare turns brutally cold. A reminder of who we both are, and the roles we inhabit. Two predators in the same territory. A careful balance we’ve always tread. I can push, but only as far as he’ll let me. My arms drop to my sides and I shake my head. “Fine. But if I’m discovered and sent to prison, I am taking you with me.”

“Psshhh,” he hisses. His eyes soften to their resting level of cutting intensity. “Do not fault an old man for wanting to spend quality time with his favorite niece.”

“I’m your only niece. And technically not.”

“Irrelevant nonsense,” he grumbles. “Now get on with it. I don’t want to be last in line for the lasagna.”

I smile before I duck behind him, taking up the handles of his wheelchair. A buzz of excitement skitters through my skin as we exit his room and head down the hall to room eighteen. It’s not the same swirling rush I feel when I spring a carefully laid trap around my prey. That’s different. Transformative. Like I’m a bottle filled with lightning. Like I could shatter and this power would explode around me, consuming everything it touches.

No, it doesn’t feel like that.

But it still feels pretty good.

We drift in silence down the hall, Samuel watching his phone where he can spot any movement on the hacked security cameras. Nothing comes. We stop outside the closed door of room eighteen and Samuel checks the camera hidden within, confirming that Dick Piston is still asleep with one decisive nod.

I pull on my gloves and turn the handle, sweeping the silent door into the room.

The old man is sleeping on his back, his mouth gaping, a gentle snore rumbling in his throat. He’s tall and lean. He looks strong for his advanced age. I dart a glance down at Samuel as I halt his wheelchair next to the head of the bed. He seems unconcerned that his rival could be capable of self-defense. His focus is consumed by his prey.

Samuel reaches beneath his leg and withdraws the syringe, uncapping it as I walk to the other side of the bed and prepare to hold Richard down. I meet Samuel’s gaze and dart my eyes to the phone. He gives the cameras a final check and nods.

Then he slips the needle into Richard’s jugular and depresses the plunger.

Dick Piston doesn’t move. The cadence of his snore remains uninterrupted. He doesn’t even twitch.

I look up at Samuel and he at me. He shrugs.

“What the—”

I never finish my sentence.

Richard erupts from the bed with a right hook as I’m distracted with Samuel. I twist away but he still connects, catching my cheekbone. The old fucker is strong. It’s like being hit with a brick. My cheek burns. The punch hurtles me through time and into memory. Into a red mist. Into the unforgiving desert sun.

I fall back, then launch with a rebound of rage. I jump onto the mattress and wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze. I feel the pulse in my palms. Mine or his, I don’t know. It hammers at my skin. I grip tighter and the old man gasps and flails with rapidly waning strength as the drug starts to take effect.

“Bria, no,” Samuel hisses with a note of desperation. “You’ll break it.”

The hyoid.

I’ll break the wings of the fragile bone in his throat. A telltale sign of murder.

I force my fingers open. The old man takes a heaving breath in and I clamp my hand to his mouth before he can scream. My teeth are gritted so tight they could break. I stare into his eyes, ready to pinch his nose shut as his weakening hits pummel my shoulders. My cheek pulses with a steady beat.

“You,” Samuel growls next to Richard’s face. The old man’s eyes are wide as they shift to meet Samuel’s. His body is going slack as the SUX courses through his bloodstream. His arms quake and drop to his sides, his muscles shuddering. “First you steal my possessions. Then you insult me. And now,” he says as he pinches Richard’s nose shut, tears leaking from the corners of the old man’s eyes, “now you dare to strike my Sombria? If only I had given you less succinylcholine. I would take my time. I would make you suffer.”

The old man struggles to take a breath that will not come. My hand stays pressed across his mouth. Samuel’s fingers grip tight to his nostrils. And the drug ensures that no strength is left to lend to the fight.

Richard’s chest convulses. It becomes a rhythmic pulse of spasming muscle. His eyes drift away from us, the fear within spiriting away like a gas. The convulsions continue as his gaze becomes glassy, as his heart slows. Death unravels like a spectrum. This is my favorite part, the mystery of possibility. If I move my hand away now, will he take a breath and live? Will his body continue to shut each door to life? So many options are at my fingertips. The choice belongs to me.

And I choose death.

Samuel and I wait, locked in our joint effort to hold Richard still until the convulsions stop and there is no coming back to tell tales and spill secrets.

When Richard is gone, we look across his body at one another. My heart drums a slowing percussion through my chest and up my neck and beneath my skull, settling in my cheekbone. I let my hand slip away from the old man’s slack mandible as his final, saturated exhalation drifts into the room.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Samuel gives a single nod. He looks down at the body and then to the phone in his lap, checking the cameras. “Come.”

I walk around the edge of the bed and grip the handles of Samuel’s wheelchair, pushing him toward the door. He gives a final glance to the video feed and then we exit the room, closing the door behind us.

We don’t speak as we pass down the hall like wraiths. I push Samuel into his room, wheeling him to his desk before backing away to sit on the edge of the bed, my cheekbone hot and throbbing against the weight of the tense air between us. I resist the urge to touch it, keeping my hands folded in my lap as I wait for Samuel to switch the security system back to the primary feed. He locks the screen and wheels himself away from the desk, pivoting to face me.

These are the moments with Samuel that I enjoy the most. The acceptance of his wisdom, coding it into my memory. He helps me to sculpt my skill. He hones my expertise, like cutting the facets of a diamond. Even on nights like tonight, when I have fallen short of flawless, I feel one step closer to indestructible.

Samuel looks at me for a long moment. I say nothing. I know to wait, to remain still and polite. “Your rage, Bria. Your inability to separate the traumas of your past from the needs of your present. You react quickly to protect yourself, but you don’t stop on your own. It is your greatest weakness. If you can listen to me enough to stand down, you can find it within yourself to do so. You must.”

I give him a single bow of my head. “Yes. How do I conquer this?”

Samuel wheels a little closer. His eyes scour my face like steel wool, narrowing when they land on my throbbing cheek. “You have been killing your past. Perhaps you must embrace the memories that won’t die.”

My heart shrivels behind my bones. He’s probably right. He’s always right. Even when I hate the sound of it.

I don’t know how to do that. Maybe it’s because I don’t really want to. Killing anything that reminds me of my past has felt therapeutic, even if the lives I took weren’t directly related to DOX. Finding individuals connected with cults like the one I was raised in? That has been enough to keep my past where it belongs, in the desert sands behind my memory palace, trapped beyond the walls I’ve built in my mind. Most of the time, anyway.

“I will find a way,” I say to Samuel. We remain unmoving as we watch one another, and then he finally nods. I stand before him. “I’d better get you to the lasagna line.”

“Stay.”

“Of course.”

I wheel Samuel from his room and into the dining hall where we wait in line for lasagna and salad, then sit apart from the other residents at a table for two next to the window. After a while, the ambulance shows up, no siren to fill the silence between us. But the lights flash their metronomic beat across Samuel’s face. He watches as they load Richard’s covered body into the vehicle.

“One day soon enough, that will be me,” Samuel says, his eyes fixed to the ambulance. “You must learn to do this on your own.”

I watch Samuel’s face, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking into the future as it rolls away into the shadows of cedars and pines.

“I know,” I say.

I just don’t know how.