Page 3 of Executing Malice

Now, I’m something else. Something that only exists because she destroyed the humanity she gave me.

So, yes, I’m trying to be worthy of her, but she will bleed with me first.

She will scream my name. Curse it. And once I am satisfied that she has suffered as I have, I will put her together.

I will fix her.

I will make her love me again and we will be happy just like she promised.

CHAPTER TWO

LEILA

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There’s blood in the water and the sharks are circling.

It’s hard to miss even before the bells over the bank door rattle. The sound punctures my brain, wraps around the pinched nerve at my temple. The subtle migraine spikes with the invasion of three-inch heels and mothballs as Dolores Winslow, her second in command Irene McCafferty and the committee secretary Viola Henderson charge in.

“Dear friends, we are in grave danger.” Already clad entirely in black, hair swaddled in a wrap, Dolores Winslow is the very picture of a fortune teller come to dispense our doom. “Just beyond those doors lies an evil our community must once more band together to abolish.”

Despite the small stack of twenties pinched between my fingers, I follow the thin line of her skeletal arm to her equally bony finger jutted with a scarlet talon in the direction of the bank windows.

My heart skips a little at the object of her ire. Warmth pools in my belly and crawls up the back of my neck.

I quickly look away before I’m caught staring at the work of art displayed just outside by the curb. The still figure straddling several tons of beautiful metal and chrome. Even half hidden by passing cars and pedestrians, his pull is magnetic. It’s raw and delicious.

Or I’ve watched too many thirst trap videos, and my brain needs a reset, according to Dolores.

“We are but lobsters in a pot slowly coming to a boil, foolishly unaware and the only ones who will suffer are our children. We are here to advocate for your support in cleansing our community.”

“What has he done, Mrs. Winslow?” I dare to ask.

Because the Antichrist they’re claiming has come to Jefferson is definitely dangerous, but only to my panties. As far as I’ve noticed —and, yes, I have been watching him very closely — he hasn’t done a damn thing.

Yet, according to Dolores and company, he’s been slaughtering babies in his spare time.

“Why, isn’t it obvious?” thick, plastic bangles clink and clatter down frail wrists with the sharp jerk of her purse straps over her shoulder. “Two months, he has been lurking outside the bank on that filthy device, causing all manner of commotion, disrupting our peace.” Long hands clap together at her midsection like she’s made her point. “What will our youth make of this shameful behavior? It’s a seed that will take root in theirminds and dissuade them from God and family. They’ll get it in their heads that this is appropriate, and we simply cannot allow that seed to flourish. We must eliminate this disease by whatever means necessary.”

Against my better judgment, I sneak another peek at the figure causing all this chaos with a new and surprising sense of fear. A prickling of dread laced with anger at the audacity of this woman.

“He’s just sitting there,” I protest, forgetting all about Sheila Pavlova waiting for her withdrawal. “I don’t see how that’s a crime.”

“You wouldn’t.” Dolores arches her chin just enough to peer down the sharp line of her nose at me. “No offense, my dear, but you’re not exactly from Jefferson, are you? You don’t fully understand the blood and sweat those of us born and raised here have had to shed to maintain our community.”

Her words cut.

Each one is a fine razorblade aimed to draw blood. There is no mistaking her subtle hint to the fact that I’m not one of them. I never will be.

It’s true I wasn’t born and raised in Jefferson, but it’s the only home I remember. The only home I’ve had the last eight years. I may not think burning a man for sitting outside is necessary, but I do love my town.

Minus bitches like Dolores Winslow.

“I was born and raised here, and I say leave the boy alone.” Sheila sets a sun spotted arm on the counter for balance and turns her head to fix the Lady’s Tea Garden with the full weight of her irritation. “He’s not bothering anyone.”

Irene sniffs, crinkling her unblended nose contour. “He’s bothering everyone. We’ve been speaking with the other businesses along the hub, and the consensus is that no one is pleased by his noise or loitering.”

I get it.