Page 110 of Lethal in Pink

“You lost track,” she whispers.

“I lost track,” I repeat, my voice cracking before I can lock it down. “I really fucked shit up, Pen.”

Penelope’s eyebrow arches. Just one. The left one. It’s her tell—the single, infinitesimal crack in her otherwise flawless poker face that means I see right through you and I’m choosing not to say it out loud.

“So you need a new approach,” she says, not a question, her voice dropping into something steady and grounding.

“I do.”

“And when are you planning to utilize this new approach?”

“This Friday, and I already have a plan.”

She studies me for a long beat, her head tilted slightly, the purple streak catching what little light there is.

Then she nods, once, decisive. “Good. Because the board’s patience has a shelf life, and we’re approaching the expiration date.”

Penelope’s warning doesn’t need to be underlined.

The Underground tolerates a lot of things. Excellence, discretion, creative problem-solving. What they do not tolerate is hesitation. And the excuse of being careful sounds increasingly hollow.

I push off the island. My arms are still crossed, and the plan I’’ve been turning over in my head through hours of brutal, sleepless quiet crystallizes into something cold and airtight.

She picks up her energy drink, drains the last of it with a grimace, and crushes the can one-handed. “I’ll run camera wipes along his route. The usual coverage. You focus on execution.”

She heads for the door, pulling the beanie back over her crushed hair. I follow her, the apartment still dark behind us, the city a smear of distant light beyond the windows.

At the threshold, she pauses, one hand on the doorframe. “Amiyah.”

I look at her.

“Don’t overthink it,” she says, and her voice is so gentle it almost breaks me. “Just do the job and get it over with.”

The door closes behind her with a soft, final click.

Scene 2

Friday comes quickly and I’m standing in my kitchen, staring at my phone like a madwoman before I actually type anything. The cursor blinks in the empty message field, accusing me with every pulse.

Me: Still on for Friday?

The reply comes faster than I expect.

Jae: Wouldn't miss it. Can't wait to see you. Seven-ish?

Me: Seven-ish. Don't forget the wine.

Jae: Already picked it up. The good stuff. Not the shit that comes with a twist-off cap and existential regret.

I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. The Sparkle Shock Compact sits on my desk, its rhinestones catching the afternoon light with innocent, glittering precision. The plan is clean. The plan is simple. The plan holds.

Amiyah: High standards.

Jae: I have them where it counts.

I set the phone down without replying. The apartment is quiet, too quiet, and somewhere in the back of my skull, a very small, very quiet voice asks me what the hell I think I'm doing.

I’m doing what needs to be done. That’s what.