Page 1 of Trick me. Treat me

Chapter One

Violet

My phone vibrates itself halfway across my desk before I even notice it.

I’m too busy trying to decide whether the smear of black paint across the giant canvas looks intentionally abstract, or like I’ve spent the last six hours having some form of artistic breakdown and it just looks shit. Probably the second one.

I drop my brush into the dark, cloudy jar of water beside me and grab my phone.

STUDENTWORK — NEW JOB AVAILABLE

My thumb hovers over the notification. Please be something normal. The last three jobs that popped up have been: handing out flyers dressed as a hot dog, helping somebody’s grandmother clear out her creepy basement, and—my personal favourite—attractive skinny female with big breasts required to serve drinks at a private student poker night.

I reported that one twice, because what the hell? I know damn well it was the Delta house asking. They’re the worst of the worst when it comes to the college campus.

I open the notification, praying to any deity listening that it’s something I can do, and that it pays well enough to be worth doing.

Cat sitting job. Saturday 31st October. $500 for the night. Location to be sent upon acceptance of the job.

I stare at it, my eyes wide as I read the text over and over again. Five. Hundred. Dollars. To watch a freaking cat?

“Nope.” I say, popping the P as I lock my phone and put it facedown on the desk. Absolutely not. There’s no cat. There’s a basement. And there’s probably already a Violet-sized hole dug beneath said basement.

I pick my brush back up, wiping off the excess water before dipping it back into the black paint. Five hundred dollars. I paint one black line, messy and expressive. Five. Hundred. Dollars.

“For fuck’s sake.” I huff, dropping the brush back in the jar.

I tap my pointer finger on the table. Once. Twice. Three times. Then reach for my phone. The listing’s still there, which is surprising because jobs on StudentWork usually disappear in seconds. There are thousands of broke college students on this thing, all of us apparently willing to sacrifice our dignity for enough money to cover groceries and everything else we need to survive student life.

Five hundred dollars should’ve been snapped up before I even finished reading it. Instead, the little green button beneath the listing still says: ACCEPT JOB.

I chew the inside of my cheek. Maybe nobody else wants to spend Halloween night alone with someone’s cat. That isn’t unreasonable. Most people have plans that involve costumes and parties, drinking until they make decisions they’ll spend the rest of semester pretending never happened. I, however, have a half-finished painting due for a showcase on Monday, and approximately twenty-three dollars left in my checking account. Me and the little fur ball could have a lovely evening together.

I tap the listing again, searching for more information, but find nothing. No owner’s name, no photo of the cat, no address. Even the usual little paragraph explaining what the job actually involves is missing.

“This is how people die.” I mutter to myself, my empty apartment offering no argument.

I glance toward the kitchen. There’s half a loaf of bread on the counter, a jar of peanut butter and jelly in the cupboard, and nothing in the refrigerator except oat milk, ketchup and a bag of spinach that’s been slowly liquefying in the bottom drawer for at least a week.

Then I look around my studio apartment. At the canvases stacked three deep against the walls. At the paint tubes I’ve squeezed until they’re practically flat. At the final-year exhibition fee reminder pinned above my cluttered desk. Five hundred dollars could buy the supplies I need for my portfolio, and groceries. Hell, maybe even the fancy coffee I keep walking past in the store that always makes me gawp like a Victorian orphan staring through the window of bakery.

My thumb settles over the green button. I hesitate for just a moment, then press it. JOB ACCEPTED.

“Oh God.” Immediate regret crawls through my stomach.

I stare at the screen, half expecting another notification to appear announcing that I’ve just volunteered to have my organs harvested. But nothing happens. I wait for a minute before exhaling and setting my phone down. Maybe that’s it. The owner will probably message me tomorrow. Maybe⁠—

Bzz

I jump hard enough to knock my knee against the table. “Ow. Fuck.”

A new message sits on the screen.

Uknown

Saturday. 4.00 p.m.

I frown. That’s it? My fingers hover over the keyboard before I type.