Page 91 of Executing Malice

Don’t tell her to fuck off.

Don’t tell her to fuck off.

But the urge I’m fighting back is strong. Stronger than the smile I can feel slipping off my face.

“Can I help you with something, Mrs. Winslow?”

Even to my own ears, I hear the tension. The subtle warning I know she’s going to ignore.

“What is this I am hearing that you are ... associating with that criminal?”

I keep my expression deadpan. My stare fixed on hers even when she fidgets with her purse straps and takes a step back.

“Those are some serious allegations, Mrs. Winslow. I hope you’ve come with evidence to back your claim, or I will be taking offense.”

I have to give it to her, Dolores stays firm in her convictions even while her unease has her fidgeting.

“I heard you were late this morning, which is so unlike you, but to show such disrespectful behavior while on the clock with an individual who has no regards for our traditions—”

“With all due respect, Mrs. Winslow, but I will ask you to keep out of my business. My work, and who I spend time with are not up for discussion.” I put up a hand when she opens her mouth. “I understand your passion for Jefferson. I even admire how vehement you are in keeping our community the way it is. But I will not discuss who I choose to spend my time with.”

There’s a moment where she puffs up that reminds me of a cat getting sprayed by water, but Irene touches her elbow and that seems to bring her down from the tirade she was getting ready to unload.

“This behavior is not at all how your mother raised you,” she shoots back, and I struggle not to remind her that Joy Weirdidn’t raise me. I was a fully grown adult when I arrived. But I won’t disrespect Mom by stating as much. “You have defiled the home she entrusted you with and conducted yourself in a manner unbefitting of a young lady.”

It’s the knowledge that Mom and Dolores share the same friend group, attend the same church and live in the same town that keeps me from telling her I don’t give a fuck. Part of me knows she’s right. Mom would be upset by my behavior the last several days, and I hate that.

I take a deep breath and bottle down all the rage and defiance bubbling up in my throat. It’s not a new trick. It’s a habit I was trained on by Mom and Reed when I first arrived and my mouth would take over. Everyone chalked it up to trauma, but now I wonder if it wasn’t instinct. A natural reflex from living in foster care to not take shit from anyone.

But this isn’t foster care. This is Jefferson. It’s a different beast, but like foster care, there are rules to handling people like Dolores. Unfortunately, it doesn’t involve punching them in the mouth.

It’s submission.

“Of course I see your concern, Mrs. Winslow. If we don’t look after each other and our town, who will?”

The woman gives a sharp bob of her head. “Precisely.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “But I can assure you Dante is not a threat.”

Her beady eyes blink, reminding me of a bird of prey spotting a rodent. “Is that his name?”

I bite back my grimace. “Yes, and I know—”

“He is unfit to be part of our community,” she snips, prickling my irritation all over again. “He is rude and unresponsive. Why, we heard of his behavior here at the bank just this morning, and you allowed him to cause such a scene.”

I take a deep breath, feeling what little patience I had left leave my body. It’s surprising because I’m used to Dolores. I’ve had eight years of training myself to Jefferson. I don’t lose my calm. I don’t let them get under my skin.

But hearing them talk about Dante like he’s some deranged lunatic attacking innocent people has my molars clenching.

“Perhaps it wouldn’t have been required of him to step in if grown people conducted themselves with grace and patience,” I retort. “Now, while I appreciate all you do to keep this town in line, perhaps your attention should be focused on the outrageous behavior that was being presented by the members of the community. With that said, I do have matters that require my attention before I close up for the evening.”

I wait for a comeback. I do not expect Dolores to simply roll over, but she jerks her bag higher on her arm and huffs.

“I am quite disappointed in you, Leila.”

I don’t respond and she takes that as further insult when she jerks her chin up and stalks from the bank. Her silent shadows follow quickly on her heels like a pair of loyal labradoodles.

With them gone, I drop back in my seat and stare up at the ceiling.