Page 107 of Executing Malice

I don’t say it out loud, don’t voice the tiny sprinkling of doubt that she ran on her own. But if someone took her, hurt her, nothing is going to stop me from finding them and burying them alive.

She lets me take her to work on my bike. There’s no custom-made seat dildo for her to enjoy — I offered, she refused. But I pull up in front of the bank and cut the engine.

Leila slips off. She hands me her helmet and waits until I’ve removed mine before leaning in and kissing me lightly.

“You really don’t have to sit out here anymore,” she tells me. “Go home. Go do whatever it is you normally used to do. I’ll be off soon.”

“And I’ll be waiting for you,” I tell her simply. “I lost you once because I wasn’t there to protect you. I won’t do that again.”

With a soft sigh, she presses her brow to mine. “You’re making it very hard to think straight.”

“Good. Now, go on. I’ll be here.”

She gives me a slow, amused shake of her head before pulling away and hurrying to open the bank.

I watch her while she goes through her routine, but my mind keeps cycling back to our conversation over breakfast. The importance of Jefferson to her. I meant what I said about making this my home if this town is where she wants to stay. In the several weeks I’ve been here, I hadn’t really surveyed the place beyond a simple recon mission to assess what I’d be facing once I arrived. I know the layout. Where everything is. I know the very basics, but...

Leila wants me to assimilate.

She wants me to know the people and understand the rules. I did not prepare for that.

My gaze travels over the faces passing by. Some are familiar, especially the shop owners along the block, but the majority are unfamiliar. I might have seen them in passing, but they were never my objective. Now, I need to make friends with these people.

I need to figure out how to make friends.

I never had any growing up. Most kids at school were terrified of Everett or their parents warned them to stay away because of my dad. At home, the foster kids never stayed long. After a while, I convinced myself I didn’t need anyone. I liked being alone.

Then Leila stepped into my life and all I wanted was her. She was enough.

I scratch the back of my head and try to find an easy victim. Theoretically, it shouldn’t be so hard; everyone is always smiling. I just need to find one and ... smile back?

Fuck.

Okay, maybe I need to treat this like a job, a highly encrypted mainframe with firewalls. If I get the walls down, I can scan for vulnerabilities. Test the ports. See where the weakest openings are.

That’s what people are basically. Coding and defenses. Firewalls designed to keep other people out. But even firewalls have backchannels. All I need is the right entry point. A glitch in the system. A common password to worm my way into Jefferson. I just need to be careful not to trip the alarms.

I need to install trust like malware and let it run in the background until one day, they realize I’ve been here all along and I’m not dangerous. That they can trust me.

Essentially, friendship is like social engineering. I have to convince these people I belong in their system, so they don’t lock me out.

Easy.

And I think I know exactly which wall to knock to the ground first.

Abandoning my bike so Leila doesn’t worry, I shove to my feet and stand a moment amongst the flow of pedestrians. No one really glances at me, but the ones who do, immediately eye my arms where my T-shirt doesn’t hide my tattoos. The displeasure as they look away has me reaching into the side compartment and dragging out my jacket.

Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit, but if I want this wall to crumble, I need to give them as little to be angry about as possible.

I even smooth my hands through my hair, dust my top for invisible particles. Certain I’m as tidy as I’m going to get, I stalk in the direction of Mama May’s Diner.

Mable is at the counter like she has been for months with her sour expression andOrphan Anniecurls. Our eyes meet and I see hers narrow, but I’m glancing in the far corner of the diner where a small cluster of women sit, heads bunched together like some Saturday morning cartoon villain meeting.

I already hate this decision.

But I remind myself this is for Leila and stalk around the other tables to approach the Lady’s Tea Garden.

The leader of the gnomes, an emaciated vulture dressed in a satin blouse with jungle print notices me first. Her beady eyes narrow, pulling all the skin around them into deep creases that mirror the ones collecting around her pursed lips.