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“It’s authentic. I promise. And most importantly, fast.”
She searches it. “Huh. Has great reviews.”
“Get me the lo mein and pork fried rice.”
“Please,” she says.
Frowning, I ask, “Please what?”
“Ugh. Never mind.” She dials the number and orders our food.
Half an hour later, there’s a knock at the door. Scar pulls out her phone again and opens up a screen that shows the camera feed from just outside. But even after having seen who’s there, she approaches carefully, her hand twitching over the knife holstered to her thigh and ready to pull it.
When she opens the door, she says something in a low tone to the guy and accepts the food from him.
“That’s not one of the usual delivery guys,” I say.
“No. That’s one of my guys. I’d never allow anyone else up here.”
“Scar, are you an assassin?” I ask, following her back into the kitchen. “You look like an assassin.”
She places our delivery on the counter and slides my box to me, along with chopsticks and packets of sauce. “What does an assassin look like? And it’s Miss Scarlet to you.”
“Scarlet. I like it. You look more like a Scarlet than a Scar.” I open my to-go container and immediately begin shoving noodles into my mouth as I observe her taking dainty bites of her stir fry.
She moves her food closer and sits at the bar beside me. “So what makes you think I’m an assassin?”
“Well”—I slurp a noodle—“besides the obvious?”
She frowns. “What’s obvious?”
“You hang out with men who kill people, and you’re dressed super sleek. Black leather pants, black turtleneck, your hair is smoothed back,” I tick off on my fingers one by one. “And you have a huge knife strapped to your thigh.”
“Oh.” Scarlet glances down as if she’d forgotten it was there. “That’s what you’re basing it on? My clothes and a blade I use as protection?”
“I’ll prove it. Can I have my bag back? I’m sure you’ve already snooped all through it anyway.”
She gives me a curious stare and laughs. “Sure.”
After disappearing for a few minutes, she returns with it and hands it to me. “I kept your cell phone. You can have it back when this is all over.”
Huffing, I say, “Whatever.”
I dig through my bag until I find my sketchpad, then flip through the pages in search of a specific one.
“You draw cartoons?” she asks.
I pause and give her my most evil glare. “Comics,” I reply, hitting thec’s especially hard.
Her lips quirk. “Comics.”
“This one.” I point. “See? You kind of look like her. The black clothes, blonde hair. She even has green eyes like you.”
Scarlet’s brows pinch together as she peers at the woman I drew a few years ago. She sits beside me again as she reaches for the pad and pulls it closer. “Rage,” she reads the name on the top of the page. “You drew this?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, Maisel—”
