Page 36 of Executing Malice (Jefferson Rejects #4)

LEILA

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“I’ll be back.”

Two hours later and there is still no sign of him.

I keep stealing peeks at the window, half expecting him to pull up into his usual spot — which is currently occupied by Lindsey Towe’s Buick — but the street is silent.

With the dwindling afternoon, there are fewer people occupying the sidewalks and the flow of traffic has slowed.

I peek at the corner of my screen and check the time.

Even I will be closing up soon.

Maybe he’s waiting back at the house. I realize in this moment that I don’t have his number so I can’t even text him. Hell, I don’t even have his last name.

“What are you doing, Leila?” I mutter to myself.

Dude shows up out of the blue, moves into my walls, says he knows me from before my accident and I fall into his arms. I mean, I do believe him. There isn’t a bone in my body refuting anything he’s said, but I do question my own mental stability accepting it without a shred of research.

So, I pull out my phone .

I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to look up when I still have next to no information, but I type in Alia Rivers. It’s a unique enough name that I should hopefully pull up something.

But no sooner have I typed the ... my name in when the door swings open, sending the bells over it wild. The soft tinkle sends my heart fluttering with excitement even before I lift my gaze to the figure ambling up to the counter.

My heart sinks.

Dolores with her entourage clatter across my floors. She has Mavis Underhill and Irene with her this time, and I have to wonder what it is these women do all day. I know they all have families, yet they are forever in everyone else’s business.

“Ladies.” I slap on my smile. “Making a deposit?”

The sour pinch in Dolores’s thin lips is a clear indicator that that is not at all why they’ve chosen to darken my counter.

“Leila Weir, can you explain to me what it is I’m hearing through the grapevines?”

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 Weir didn’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.

This will end in one of two ways.

Someone else will piss Dolores off and she’ll forget about me, or she’ll set my house on fire and send me packing out of Jefferson.

There is no middle ground with the Lady’s Tea Garden.

Cut off the infected limb to save the patient is their motto.

At the moment, I’m the limb threatening their way of life.

Reed won’t let them hurt me physically, nor would he allow them to burn his childhood home to the ground, but accidents happen. Sometimes, people die. I suppose I could apologize and keep my head down. Conform to their regime. Everyone does it. It’s just easier.

But it would come with conditions. At the moment, Dante is the thorn in their side. The reason for their daily meetings. They want him gone.

A chill scuttles up my spine even as I bolt upright, attention snapping to the wall of glass.

There’s still daylight.

They wouldn’t issue a hit when people can see it. They’ll wait until dark .

But even my rational reasoning doesn’t quiet the voice asking where is he then? It’s been hours. If he was going to the house, he would have been back by now. I’ve never heard of them taking anyone hostage before, but he’s not from Jefferson. No one, except me would notice his absence if they did.

I push out of my chair and hurry to the windows and peer along the street. The crowd has thinned, but there are still enough people to give me some peace of mind.

Maybe I should call Reed.

No idea what I would tell him, but I know he would know what to do.

I nibble on my thumb nail while staring anxiously at the four-hour parking sign bolted into the sidewalk in front of the bank.

I should have been nicer, I fret. I should have apologized and explained.

Damn it!

I need Reed. I need him to put out an APB on a biker. I’ll have to tell him everything, but I know I can trust him.

Heart hammering, I sprint back to the counter. My fingers are shaking when I drag open the bottom drawer and fish out my purse.

No sooner have I gripped the worn fabric when the bell jingles. My heart flops down into my belly before leaping into my throat even as I jerk upright .

“Dante.”

Not Dante.

The figure that swaggers in crushes every drop of hope I had lodged in my chest.

“Hello again.”

This day just won’t end...

The asshole from the other day strolls up to my counter, a beautiful arrangement of flowers in hand, wrapped in Opal’s Floral Paradise’s brown paper. My gaze swings from the bouquet to the man holding them, my displeasure unmasked.

“Can I help you?”

He offers me a lopsided grin that may have been boyish and sweet but only serves to irritate me.

“I was thinking about how we left things.” He holds up the flowers. “I thought an apology might make us both feel better.”

I gather my phone off the desk and grip it between us like a shield. In no hurry to accept his weird ass gift.

I never understood flowers or offering them to another person as a gesture of affection. It’s giving a dying thing you tore out of the ground that will shrivel up and rot.

Plus, it’s so common. Cliché and boring.

But he’s waiting for me to accept .

I don’t.

Never mind the fact that I don’t accept gifts from people I dislike. I really have no use for flowers.

“Was there something you needed?”

The paper crinkles as the bundle is placed on the counter. On my files. The moisture soaks through to smudge the ink and ruin my work.

Now, I’m double annoyed.

I turn my gaze up to his.