The box is an unassuming brown cardboard, but it has a pull tab so I can easily open it up.
Nestled at the top of a pile of packing peanuts is a business card.
Ulrike Rehard, M.D.
Doctor of Psychiatry.
What.
What the fuck?
My hands shake as I stare at the business card. Why the fuck would Papa give me this? This isn’t a present.
This is poison.
I blink, and the wetness gathers in my eyes. I lift the box, ready to toss it out onto the street.
It’s heavy. Far too heavy for a single business card inside a cardboard box. I push all of the packing peanuts aside and find a gun underneath.
I stare at it. It’s a beautiful revolver in gleaming silver. No decorative elements on it, no engraving. Daddy taught me how to shoot one of these. We’ve done family outings out to a shooting range so we all maintain our aim.
I wipe the wetness from my eyes and search the box for anything else.
At the very bottom is a folded card. The outside is a generic Christmas motif, Santa and his reindeer in the snow.
Merry Christmas, the printed text inside says.
Papa wrote a message underneath it, his handwriting messy and borderline illegible.
This doctor is good, discreet, and owes us. She’ll give you what you need, and the rest of the fam will never know. Not even me.
Or you could shoot your enemies. That’s cool too. The gun is unregistered and untraceable.
I burst out laughing, the sound barely distinguishable from sobs.
“Fuck you, Papa,” I say. “Why didn’t you put the card at the top of the pile?”
I breathe heavily, puffs of condensation filling the cooling air inside the car.
My phone starts buzzing, too. I let it go for a few minutes before I check.
Cry Me A
Where are you?
Blabe
If River scared you off, we can kill him.
Cry Me A
Ha. Ha. I didn’t scare her off.
Boyfriend
Are you sure?
Cry Me A
