Page 7 of Executing Malice

Don’t be a weirdo,my inner voice warns.Don’t go full Jefferson.

But I do have a right to confront the random stranger parked outside my work every day. I just have to be careful I don’t come off as crazy.

So, I plaster on a smile I reserve for children and idiots and head over.

“Hi,” I chirp, adding a little wave, committing to the performance.

Sunlight lances along the smooth plastic of his helmet with the slight tilt of his head. Maybe he’s as confused by my actions as I am.

“I’m just wondering if you’re lost.”

That’s not weird. It’s a totally reasonable partial question.

“Do I look lost?”

I blink because what the fuck? Rude.

My smile slips. “You’re parked here every day—”

“Isthat a crime?”

My hesitation irritates me more than my visceral wish that I never walked over.

“Not a crime, but definitely creepy,” I state, planting my hands on my hips.

Strong arms unfurl and a gloved hand presses into his chest as if I’ve mortally wounded him.

I wish.

“That’s harsh. Here I thought I was bringing real world whimsy to yourPleasantvillecommunity.”

“We don’t need whimsy. You’ve been lurking in this spot every day forweeks.You don’t go anywhere. You don’t talk to anyone—”

“Been watching me that closely, huh?”

Heat floods my cheeks, and I hate that he can see my face, but I can’t see his.

“I’m part of the safety committee,” I lie. “Are you even from Jefferson?”

“Will you have me lynched and feathered if I’m not?”

“Tarred,” I correct sharply. “Tarred and feathered.”

His arms return to their folded state across an incredibly impressive chest draped in a loose T-shirt and a leather jacket.

“Oh, well, that does sound much better. Should I call the historical society and book a lynching or does that come with the welcome basket?”

I draw in a breath meant to calm and soothe but definitely doesn’t.

“You book an appointment with my brother, the deputy sheriff,” I threaten, mirroring his stance, crossing my arms.

He says nothing for a long, painfully brittle minute where I fight against my own urge to wince with self-disgust; I’m becoming like every other busybody in town threatening to call the sheriff on people for simply minding their own business. I have no reason to give this guy a hard time. He has done literally nothing to me or anyone else.

“Well, you sure showed me,” he drawls with an edge that hadn’t been there before. “Haven’t had a girl threaten me with her big brother in a while.”

I ignore the jab, the blatant mockery.

“You know what, stay. I don’t care.”