Page 20 of Executing Malice

“Yes. You’re not injured.”

“You hit my car!” I snarl at him. Fuming, I spin and march to the passenger side and stare at the visible dent etched into the burgundy paint. The jagged scratches clearly visible dusting the edges of his door. “You dented my door,” I snap, gesturing to the spot.

“How do I know that wasn’t already there?”

I can’t even begin to formulate the level of audacity this man apparently has. At best, all I’m capable of is staring, gawking and wondering if he’s acting stupid or if he’s actually a fucking idiot.

“Probably because my car paint is on your door,” I point out, struggling with all my patience not to stab him with something sharp.

Eyes void of light, absent of any other color, drifts from me to the flecks of burgundy scratched into his paint.

“Maybe you hit me,” he decides briskly.

It dawns on me that he’s intentionally goading me. He wants me to cause a scene, to rage and act unhinged. He’s trying to gaslight me and manipulate the situation.

So, I stop.

I pull in a slow, easy breath. My attention roams over his features, his oddly formal attire. I take him in, pack up every detail before meeting those cold, inhuman eyes, and say nothing. I give him no more. I stifle the fire he’s fanning.

Amused, he smirks. Victory carved in the sharp slants of his mouth. He remains fixed on my face even when he slides his glasses back into place and pivots on his heels.

“I’ll see you around, Leila,” he calls over his shoulder as he strolls away.

I’m surprised for only a second that he knows my name. Everyone knows everyone’s name in Jefferson. There are a million ways he could have heard mine.

Still, I hate that he knows it. I hate that he has that much over me.

I grind my jaw and watch him pull out his phone and put it to his ear. I vaguely consider clobbering him over the skull with a rock, dragging him into my trunk and driving out to Hemlock Island. I’ve watched enough true crime documentaries and read most of Reed’s training manuals to confidently sleep at night knowing no one would find his body.

Instead, I wait until he’s out of sight. I wait until enough of the blood roaring between my ears has subdued before returning to my car. I yank open my door, toss my purse into the next seat and pop open the glove box.

I’m not a violent person. In most cases, I’m pretty proficient at keeping my calm. It’s a requirement to live in Jefferson where people like Dolores Winslow haunt the foundation. But being a good person doesn’t mean being a doormat.

Reed’s Christmas present settles, cold and weighted in my palm. My fingers brush the textured handle as I grip it.

“For emergencies, Leila,”he said when I raised an eyebrow.

At the time, it seemed like such an odd gift; when would I ever need a tactical, fold-up knife?

Now, apparently.

I don’t even second guess my actions as I unfold the blade with the flick of my wrist. The satisfying click has a grin touching my lip. But I don’t savor it. I don’t have time. It’s late enough in the evening that I won’t be alone long.

Still, I cast a glance around the lot. I scan the empty seats of the vehicles closest to me before moving to the driver’s side tire.

The blade sinks through rubber with the first plunge and twist. The back tire meets the same fate. Same as the other side. I get all four before taking a step back ... and freezing.

He stands in the narrow path dividing the bank and the Cut & Curl. Stance wide. Arms folded. The sun dances off the polished curve of his visor in mocking sparks.

I don’t know how long he’s been standing there. I probably should have done a few more scans in-between my crimes, but too late now. He’s seen me.

He watched me vandalize private property.

Despite the curl of dread in my gut, it’s defensive outrage that catches in my voice.

“Need something?” I snap, fingers tightening around my weapon.

Not that I’m going to stab him — I think — but my skirt doesn’t have pockets. I have nowhere else to put it.