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Michael peeks his head around the bathroom door. I’ve forgotten. He doesn’t like to argue on days I fly. “I’ll see if I can cut out early,” he says. “If not, I’ll ring the Terrys.”
I hear his words. But they don’t register. My mind has already flung itself far into the future, into the data, to the job I have to do. Carpool is the least of my concerns. I have a murder to plan.
Chapter Three
Charlotte
As I slap mayonnaise between two slices of bread, I run through it in my mind. Calling my shot, I watch it play out, making sure to envision the outcome I want, just as athletes do before a big match. Henry taught me this. Murder is mostly a mental game.
This is a theory I’ll be forced to put to the test today, considering that my body aches in unfamiliar places and I’m slightly delirious. I just hope Henry’s right. I really need today to be cut and dry.
My husband notices. I know because he’s commented— not once, but twice—that I’ve over-extended myself this month making too many bids, which he rarely does.
We need the money. At least that’s what I told him. College and retirement always come faster than you think, I said, knowing he couldn’t argue with me on that.
That’s not to say I don’t see his point. I’m not fond of back to back trips, either. They don’t give me much time to think, and it’s the build-up I miss most when things move this quickly. How lovely it is to have segments of time set aside, just to imagine, to daydream, and maybe even to grocery shop. Those stolen moments that make a job well done that much sweeter.
It’s important to take them when you can. I’m taking one now, as I slice deeply into the turkey sandwich, making a perfect diagonal cut. I imagine the elongated throat of my mark, opening slowly, offering blood, giving life over to death, and suddenly I feel a deep sense of peace. It occurs to me that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.
It’s a beautiful moment, until my youngest daughter enters the kitchen and begins slinging things around, rendering any sort of substantial thought nearly impossible. “Have you seen my math homework?”
I glance up from my sandwich artistry, a hint of warning in my eyes. At thirteen, she is as petulant as they come, alternating between thinking she is an adult and acting like a child. “Nope.”
She slams her fist into the granite. “I left it right here!” Her eyes meet mine. I offer a tight smile noticing how much she looks like me at that age, with subtle hints of her father thrown in. “I put it here,” she screeches, stabbing her finger at the countertop. “Right here.”
“I doubt it grew legs,” I say, knowing how it will land. Someday all that pent-up anger will serve her well. But not today, so I motion toward the door. “Out of my kitchen. I have to finish lunches. And I have a flight to catch.”
As I watch Hayley stomp off, Michael wanders in, his gazed fixed on the Josie Natori silk caftan I threw on while he was in the shower. A gift from Henry. “What’s her deal?”
“Poor organizational skills.”
“Let me guess…her homework?” He walks over, pausing in the doorway and shouts after her, “Check the dining room!”
Eventually, Sophie saunters in, her skirt beyond several inches too short. It’s miles in the wrong direction, hovering just below the crease where her behind meets her upper thigh. I palm the knife, gripping it so tight my fingers go numb. I watch Michael take note. Disapproval and something else—worry, I think— passes over his face. It’s not her fault entirely. She’s testing her limits, but only to a degree. It doesn’t help her cause that she’s all arms and legs, just like her father. At fifteen, the rest of her hasn’t grown into them yet, which makes it awkward watching her lurch herself from one place to the next, never seeming sure of exactly who or where she is.
She makes a beeline for the fridge. “Who’s picking me up today?”
“Nina.”
I notice a subtle shift in her features. A faint smile. Sophie’s more controlled than her sister, more like me in that regard. She doesn’t wear her emotions on her sleeve, which means I have to watch closely. “I can just get a ride with Toby.”
“Your mother has already arranged for you to ride home with Nina,” Michael tells her, his tone leaving no room for rebuttal. He often forgets his daughters aren’t little girls anymore, but this morning it seems he remembers. “And that outfit isn’t going to pass dress code.”
Sophie buries her head in the refrigerator, but I feel the eye roll from across the room. “Whatever.”
“I can’t afford to get a call from the school, Soph—I’m in meetings all day and your mother is flying.”
“Fine!” she hisses, slamming the refrigerator door closed. “I’ll change.”
I’m just about to reprimand her for yelling when Michael asks where I’m flying to, catching me off guard. He rarely asks anymore, and I rarely offer more information than I have to.
“Oh,” I say, screwing the lid on the mayonnaise. “Um…Florida, I think.”
His bottom lip juts out. “Florida doesn’t sound half bad.”
My eyes meet his. “Oh yeah? When’s the last time you’ve been there?”
When he raises his brow, I know it’s a point well made.
