Page 6 of Executing Malice

I don’t even know my real name.

I have no idea how old I actually am.

I don’t know if I have parents, siblings, or family.

And these are things people want to know when connecting. But all I have are the last eight years and no explanation. Kind of like how I can’t explain why I can’t date. Aside from it never appealing to me, men don’t attract me. Yes, I find men attractive, but none feel right. Trying feels like I’m doing something I shouldn’t.

But I don’t want to be alone. I know I want a person. I know I like being touched — by my own hands, at least. But letting anyone else get close feels like a betrayal and I don’t have an explanation, except I’m not interested.

Plus, who in their right mind would put up with someone with a stalker?

Okay, maybe not a stalker exactly, but definitely someone playing an elaborate joke. Kids most likely getting excited for the fall harvest — Jefferson doesn’t believe in Halloween, but still celebrates it with costumes, candy, and a corn maze.

Regardless of the name, kids make a big deal of the entire month by being little terrors toilet papering trees, egging city hall, capturing cats and letting them loose in the library. Little, harmless pranks that are only funny when they happen to someone else.

Systematically leaving random trash on the hood of my car isn’t cute.

A faded square of fabric in dark red with tattered edges, like it was torn from a larger piece. A snapped, yellow pencil with a blackened eraser. A tiny bird skull.

None of it makes any sense to me, but I guess that’s the point.

With no customers to serve, I go through my usual checklist. I fill the rolls in the printers. I do a quick check forenvelopes and pens at the check station against the far wall. I run a quick broom over the floors and wipe down the counters.

The bank isn’t a large space. By most bank standards, the rectangle with the two teller booths, an office for Mr. Haberman, a backroom combination of staffroom and safe, and a basement is fairly small. But being squished next to Big Ron’s Butcher Shop, we don’t have room for expansion, not that we need it. Most of the shops along the hub are roughly the same size with mild variations.

Brushing down my skirt, I hop off my stool and round the row of counters. My slippers make no sound across the polished marble as I pad lightly to the solid wall of glass overlooking Church Avenue.

I love autumn in October.

I love October.

I love Halloween.

I love the warm hues of oranges and reds. The tempting sprinkle of cinnamon on the cool breeze. The crunch of brittle leaves beneath my feet.

But it’s also the way Jefferson embraces each season. The way the stores collectively band together to decorate the trees along the streets. The way pumpkins get clustered together outside doors and line windows. A few shops string cobwebs and shimmering stars around their display, adding just enough whimsy to pull it all together.

I push open the door and step out onto the sidewalk and breathe in the scent of damp earth. The faint dusting of sugar and baked bread. My eyelids fall shut just long enough to let myself sink into the comfort of the only home I remember.

Jefferson may not be for everyone. It’s a place stubbornly rooted in tradition and simplicity, with practices too outdated to be realistic anywhere else, but it accepted me when I staggered out of the woods eight years ago, bloody and dehydrated with no memory of even my own name. The town banded together to clean me up and find me a home amongst them. I owe Jefferson more than I can repay, and while I may not agree with all the rules, I do my best to follow them.

Unlike the familiar figure perched casually on the back of his sleek, black motorcycle looking every bit out of place as he has nearly every day for the last two months.

I know there are a few who have bikes. It’s not outlawed, but the noise is definitely frowned upon. Most know to stay off the main roads, away from the hub. Yet this guy just sits there every day, powerful arms folded. Face masked in a helmet. He doesn’t go anywhere, doesn’t talk to anyone unless they approach him first. He’ll just be there until I get off work. Then he’ll turn his bike on and speed off.

Maybe I’m being delusional. There are probably a million reasons why he sits there and none of them are my business. It’s insane to think he’s there for me, yet...

Even with the visor down, I know he’s watching me. I don’t know how, but I can feel the weight of his eyes fixing me to the sidewalk. Not once in the last several months has he moved. Has he dismounted. He seems content to sit outside the bank and prickle the hairs along the back of my neck.

The rational and Jefferson thing to do would be to call Reed and let the authorities handle him the way Dolores wants. But he’s not doing anything. He’s on public property and ... well, no one has fascinated or annoyed me simultaneously like this before and, truth be told, only to myself, I think I might like it. The conflicting emotions are hard to decipher when I’ve never felt this way about anyone before while common sense is telling me I should call Reed.

Instead, I channel my inner Dolores, sweep a hand down my skirt and march the short distance.

CHAPTER THREE

LEILA

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