Shirking my only part to play as an accomplice in this scheme off onto the dead man will handle the only issue keeping me from apparent innocence. It’s not my fault we’re here.It’s his. And, knowing Malcolm, there will be plenty of proof of that on his computer since he’s the one who did absolutely all of the coordination and planning after I mentioned it.
All I have to do to pull off the perfect vigilante crime in the name of justice is behave normally. While I’m doing something I would never do. And have no idea whatnormalin this context even looks like for someone like me…
Easy peasy.
It’s no wonder I feel like throwing up before I’ve so much as parked outside the Swallow Medical Group building.
Come on, Azalea. Everyone else in the world canbehave normally. So can you.
Except you can’t. Because you never have. And everyone knows. Everyone can tell. Everyone can tell you aren’t normal. Everyone knows what you are.
And nobody likes you because of it.
Bracing myself, I grip my white steering wheel and stare at the dash bathed in the light of a cloudy pre-dawn. Nerves gnaw at my stomach, but I wrestle with the loneliness and battle to get my head back in the game.
It’s two days.Hopefullyone day. Only one day and one perfect accident, then the balance of justice is restored. I’ll have done something good with my worthless existence. Everything will be okay; better than okay, even. I am doing theright thing. This is a small price to pay for the good of mankind.
And, really, what’s the worst case scenario here? If the assassination fails, I won’t have to pretend I wasn’t involved, because there won’t be anything to not be involved in.
Then I’ll just need to…finish this date. Which will involve staying in an unfamiliar, dirty hotel room, showering in a filthy stall, and not eating. For two straight days.
What if my body decides it doesn’t need to hold onto weight anymore because of the skipped meals? What if I go back to being as underweight as I was growing up? What if I contract something from the hotel room, and what if my starved body doesn’t have the energy it needs to fight it off, and what if—
Shaking my head, I take deep, cooling breaths of the safe air inside my car and tell myself about the onlywhat ifthat matters right now.
What ifI shut up.
I have wipes with me. I have a few cleaning supplies in my bag. And—oh yeah—rememberhownormalpeople don’t die after staying in a hotel room?
Yeah.
Crazy concept, I know.
Just…benormal.
For once in your pathetic life,be normal.
Fingers shaking, I unlatch them from around my steering wheel, open my car door, and step out.
Malcolm’s waiting for me at his usual parking spot, in his usual jet-black pit of an SUV. My gloved fingers tremble as I reach for the handle, but I don’t make contact before Malcolm’s at my side, opening the door to present…a scene I would never in a million years expect.
“Darling dove,” he murmurs while I remain motionless, staring.
Breathlessly, I whisper, “What is this?”
“Does it meet your standards, darling?”
In the darkness of his vehicle, a white sheet covers the passenger-side chair, tucked around it perfectly above a white floor carpet with a plastic protector.
Amid my shock, leather-clad fingers dance against my skin, grazing my cheek and drawing back my hair. When warm breath coasts near me, I lurch, whipping to face Malcolm. Our noses nearly collide as he says, “I love you.”
My heart jerks.
This has to be some kind of psychological attack. Itmustbe. It really, really—
Cutting off my thoughts, he lifts a fresh canister of Lysol wipes, in my usual flavor of mango and hibiscus. “In case you need to touch anything.” Taking my luggage, he presses the canister to my chest and ushers me inside. “Come now, we’ve a schedule to keep.”
Cornered into the vehicle, I watch the door shut on me. Then Malcolm opens the backseat door, sets my things in a pillow of more white behind my chair, and circles to the driver side.
