Her lips tremble, and her face pales beneath the mocha skin. I don’t have to say a word, this is evidence about where I’ve been last night.

And Rebecca here has definitely heard the name. Serrano was smart to warn his family about me, but he wasn’t smart enough to go unnoticed. He came close, though. So close.

When Rebecca doesn’t take my hand, I retrieve a pack of cigarettes and light one before blowing a cloud of smoke in the air.

I don’t hide my bloodied hand, even when Rebecca’s eyes fill with tears and she looks like she wants to stab me in the eye. She won’t, though, because like her husband, she has a weakness, too.

“Take your daughter and leave the city.”

Her gaze finally meets mine. “D-don’t.”

“Don’t what, Rebecca? Finish what you started. You dealt with gunshots your entire life here, you can say it.”

She remains quiet, her lips thinning in a line.

I tilt my head to the side. “Kill her? Kill you?”

A full body shudder goes through her. She’s scared. Good. Fear is the only incentive to get her out of here, and not in cement like her husband.

I reach out and take her cold, sweaty hand in mine. She looks on the verge of throwing up as I shake it. “Leave so you never hear the name Jasper Cain again.”

I release her and she jerks away as if she’s been slapped then runs back in the direction of the staff entrance, not bothering to gather up her phone.

A few days is all she gets, and I’ll watch to make sure she’s gone. If she doesn’t leave, Lucio will have Stephan and Marco take care of them, as in rape then kill them, then rape their corpses and shoot them for porn.

The icky factor is real with those two.

I’m about to turn and leave when Rebecca bumps into someone. A nurse. She’s wearing blue scrubs and an open coat that stops at her knees.

She reaches to steady Rebecca and her lips pull in a warm smile. It reaches her eyes and makes her small face radiant and like a fucking cliché of an angel coming down to save lost souls.

Even Rebecca in her flustered state stops to return an awkward smile before she dashes inside.

The moment Rebecca disappears, the other nurse’s smile falls as fast as it appeared, almost as if it were never there, almost like she never smiled. Never cared.

My head tilts to the side. Her dark hair is tied into a conservative bun. The rest of her face is normal, uninteresting, all small with a tiny nose and mouth, rosy cheeks and pale skin that resembles porcelain. There’s one thing that’s interesting though, or rather, two. Her eyes that nearly closed with her smile are now huge, round and with a gray cloud that mimics the metal of my gun.

How would those eyes look if they had the blood in my knife on them?

Exquisite, for sure.

As she heads toward the parking lot, my own feet move of their own volition. I remain in shadows, keeping a parallel line opposite her as she strides. And she does stride, which is odd considering her tiny frame. It’s like she’s running away from something.

Or someone.

She unlocks an old green Honda and throws her bag inside then stops in front of the driver’s door and abruptly turns around, toward me.

Her metal eyes meet mine and she freezes, her hand suspended mid-air. Actually, her lips aren’t tiny, but they aren’t big either. They’re full and well-shaped with a teardrop at the top lip. Her mouth is slightly parted as she stares at me.

A second passes, five, ten…

If she thinks I’m the one who’ll break eye contact, then we’ll be standing here all day.

Her lips thin in a line and then, just like earlier, her neutral expression blossoms like a petal well-nourished and she smiles the same one she just gave to Rebecca. Warm, innocent, angelic.

Fucking fake.

How can she fake a smile to that level so well? If I didn’t read people for a living, I wouldn’t even have noticed it. I almost thought it was real a second ago.

As quickly as she smiles at me, she breaks eye contact and slips into her car.

Is the smile gone now? Is her show over?

Maybe the petal is dead.

One way to find out.

I don’t even think about it as I head out to my Mercedes and hop in it.

Carving up people’s faces isn’t the only thing I do. I also like carving up their fucking lies.

 

 

2

 

 

Georgina

 

 

The spider is huge, and it wants to fucking hurt me.

Its body must be the size of my head, with strong, furry legs scrambling as quickly as Mr. Bingley’s. It's making some creepy otherworldly noise and I start to scream at the top of my voice, louder with every decibel that leaves my body.

My eyes fly open, and I stare at the bare ceiling of my bedroom. There's a pair of eyes there. Bright blue-gray eyes, staring back at me with an intensity that's almost painful. I remember those eyes. I saw them, just a few days ago...

A nightmare. It was only a nightmare.

I'm soaked in sweat, covered in it. My duvet feels heavy on top of me and I groan, pulling myself up and making my tabbies, Mr. Bingley and Mrs. Hudson, mewl in displeasure. I shush them softly and pad over the floor into my bathroom. It's two hours before my alarm is supposed to go off, but this is nothing new for me. I've had trouble sleeping since I was a kid.

I splash cold water on my face, and notice my fingers are trembling as I pat myself dry. And so, another day of the grind begins.

It's a well-established routine by now. I brush my teeth, take a quick shower, dry my hair, apply minimal amounts of makeup and make myself a quick breakfast. I feed the tabbies, their tails and button-noses rubbing against my feet. The whole time, I fight back the thought of the stranger who'd stared at me the a few days ago at the hospital. It was the kind of chance meeting you struggle to forget, trying to understand whether fate put that person in your way for a reason... or whether you're just being a naive fool by thinking that.

"Come on," I usher the cats away from the door, grabbing my keys. "I'll see you later, guys. Be good!"

I blow them kisses, blushing as I meet the eyes of my next-door neighbor in the hallway. She must think I'm going crazy at only twenty-seven, talking to my cats like that. But they're the only family I have, and if my uptight neighbor wants to judge me for it, so be it.

I give her a perfunctory smile before taking the stairs, so I don't have to talk to her in our shitty elevator. It keeps breaking down, anyway.

I've got the mathematics of walking to work down, pat. I know which route will get me there the fastest. I know the route that's three minutes longer makes me walk past a stray cat I've named Phoebe, a couple blocks away. I take that path now, clutching my messenger bag where an unopened can of tuna is waiting for Phoebe. It's not much, but I reassure myself it's better than nothing. Phoebe's been waiting for me lately, meowing with delight when she sees me coming up to her.

Sure enough, my new friend is waiting, and I scoop out the tuna can on the pavement for her before giving her a few head pats. And then I have to rush off to the hospital for another day of misery.

It's not like I hate my job.

I just hate the people.

Working as a nurse in the ER, you see everything, from domestic disputes to child abuse. It all makes for a mélange of memories I'd rather forget.