Page 102 of Lethal in Pink

“Anytime, Lane! You know where to find me.” He’s already spinning back toward his monitors, fingers flying across the mechanical keyboard with renewed enthusiasm. “Have fun out there!”

Phhhhsh. Sure. If murdering the only guy I've ever actually liked is considered having fun.

Shouldering my bag, I head straight for Penelope’s office.

Penelope is hunched over her desk, one hand welded to a half-empty energy drink while she tears through a server log like she’s trying to punch her way out of a paper bag. The air in her office hums with the low-grade electrical anxiety of three monitors straining a single overloaded power strip.

A ring light stands mounted in the corner, powered off but still pointing at her chair like it’s waiting for its moment. A stuffed axolotl wearing a tiny purple beret sits atop the highest monitor, staring down at the chaos with judicial disappointment.

Penelope doesn’t look up. Her fingers keep hammering out a percussive rhythm on her mechanical keyboard.

“You’re here early,” she says.

“I was at Rook’s.”

That gets her attention. Her hands pause, and she swivels her chair toward me, one eyebrow arched. “Already? Jesus, Lane, the sun isn’t even up.”

“Some of us have class at eight.”

“Some of us have the basic human decency to sleep between attempted assassinations.” She takes a long pull from her energy drink and sets it down with a soft clack. “So. What’d you get?”

I drop into the folding chair across from her desk. “Discreet delivery. Two options. Neither leaves a signature.”

“Good.” She nods. “Smart. Clean approach, minimal exposure.”

She turns back to her screen. For ninety seconds, the room fills with nothing but the hum of cooling fans.

Then Penelope closes her laptop with a hard plastic snap that cuts through the white noise.

“Amiyah?”

“What’s up?”

She leans forward, elbows on the desk, dropping her usual sardonic cushion.

“Why didn’t you pull the trigger?”

The question lands between us with the weight of something that’s been sitting in the room since I walked in. I feel my spine lock straight, the practiced deflection forming on my tongue.

“I told you. The angle was—”

“Bullshit.” She doesn’t raise her voice. “Complete, unadulterated bullshit. The roof was clear. The sightline was perfect. Windage was zeroed. You had him in your scope for five minutes straight before you came over the open comms with a structural pillar excuse that wouldn’t pass muster in middle school.”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

Penelope crosses her arms, leaning back in her chair. “The twins heard it, obviously. They took your word for it, assumed it was just a bad angle and a mechanical snag, and packed it in. But I know better.” Her eyes narrow. “So I’m going to ask you again. Why didn’t you pull the trigger?”

The room feels smaller. The three monitors hum. The axolotl stares.

“I have feelings for him,” I say.

The words come out stripped, completely bare of defense.

Penelope’s expression moves through surprise, concern, and a flicker of sympathy before settling into careful neutrality.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen that way,” I continue, the words tumbling out. “He was just supposed to be fun. Something uncomplicated. Not—” I stop, swallow hard. “Not this. But I'm not an amateur. I know what I have to do. I just... I can't afford a mess. I'm too close to him.”

Penelope’s fingers tap once, twice against the edge of her desk—a slow, thinking rhythm. Then she nods, once. “Okay.”