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Van Gogh always had a taste for the finer liquors, so let’s see what real money gets him now. I pour way more than two fingers’ worth just to be an asshole and flop down in a leather chair behind the desk.
I don’t know how long I stay in Van’s chair drinking his finest spirits, but it’s long enough for my phone to ring with a number I don’t recognize. That’s not all that uncommon for me, considering all the people I’ve scammed over the years, but unlike a wise person, I answer it, my voice only a little slurred.
“This is Mrs. Cain,” I say. “How may I help you?”
The deep cackle on the other end surprises me. “Well,” the vaguely familiar voice starts, “it’s not so much me that needs your help. Unlike your husband, in my courtroom, trespassing is a crime, punishable by far worse than a fine, Mrs. Cain.” He says my new last name with a chuckle. It takes me a second. And then I hear a dog growl, and the man on the phone says, “Watch him.”
“Who is this?”
“You don’t recognize my voice? Have you forgotten me already?”
A voice that leaves a taste of fear in my mouth has me sitting up at attention.
“Tennyson?” I ask.
“Good job, Reese.” The way he says my name is haunting, but I don’t have time to figure out why.
“Who needs my help?”
The dog barks again, and the man screams that he’s from food service delivery and has my sandwich.
“Oh, shit.” I jump up, and the alcohol hits me. I stumble into the desk, knocking over what’s left of the cognac.
“I am so sorry!” I scream, hoping Tennyson has me on speaker.
“You didn’t give him the gate code to deliver this, did you?”
“Well, if I knew the gate code, I would have. My dear husband forgot that little tidbit of information.”
Tennyson laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he’s amused. “Did your husband also forget to tell you that we strictly forbid delivery service?”
My mind is fuzzy from the alcohol, and I find it difficult to think of a sane reason why they wouldn’t allow food delivery.
“No, he forgot to mention that, too,” I say, exasperated. “He’s currently down in the basement, ignoring me, and I’m hungry. So, either I go down there and stab him and eat his heart—Wait,” I chuckle, “he doesn’t have one of those. Maybe his liver. Or, I suggest you permit this one exception and allow this poor delivery guy entry.”
At this, Tennyson laughs harder, and I imagine the boisterous sound is from him throwing his head back as his German Shepherd keeps the delivery man frozen in place.
“I’ll tell you what, princess, since you’re new here, I’ll let you have this one exception. It’ll be our little secret.”
“Thank you,” I say genuinely. “I’m glad someone here is kind.”
“And just to show you how generous of a brother-in-law I am, I’ll even give him a head start.”
Fear grips me by the throat, paralyzing me in the basement hall that I finally reached. “What?”
“Ten seconds ought to do it. If your delivery guy can make it over the fence and back without the dog getting him, he lives. If he doesn’t, let this be a warning to you: Do not violate the rules of Eden unless you’re prepared to suffer the consequences.”
Suddenly, it hits me. The guys that rounded Enoch’s table with me this morning are master manipulators that use their skills for inciting terror in the innocent. They aren’t redeemable. They aren’t good deep down.
“Ten,” Tennyson counts down, and the poor delivery driver whimpers.
“Stop!” I run downstairs and bang on the basement door that’s latched from the inside, just as Tennyson reaches eight.
“Don’t be so pessimistic, Reese. This guy looks to be in shape. He might actually have a chance.”
I’m frantic, shuffling around, trying to help a guy who was just trying to get me food.
“Please. Don’t do this. He’s completely innocent.”
