Page 3 of Lethal in Pink

A normal person would probably need time to process the fact that less than twenty minutes ago they converted a living man into a tragic renovation problem.

I however, never said I was normal. If anything, one might consider me a little fucked up. But “a little fucked up” is such an ugly phrase, really.

So clinical.

So judgey.

So…cringe.

I prefer the term specialized.

My father used to say everyone has a trade.

Some people bake bread.

Some people fix engines.

Some people learn how to put a round through reinforced glass at four hundred and twelve meters before sunrise and still make it to Evidence Law with dewy skin.

Honestly? Inspirational.

My phone buzzes.

The screen lights up with Penelope’s name and a string of emojis that lets me know she is clearly not impressed that I didn’t use my com this morning for her extra added guidance.

I glance down.

Penelope: 🎧❌🙄🔪🫠?????

Then, immediately after…

Penelope: Do you hate me personally or just professionally?

I keep one hand on the wheel even though the car is doing the driving, because trusting technology completely is how people end up as cautionary tales in discovery exhibits.

I thumb the voice-to-text button.

“Neither. I hate redundancy.”

The transcription, naturally, reads: Neither I ate red onions.

“Great,” I mutter, stabbing delete with more force than necessary.

Penelope calls before I can retype my retaliation.

I let it ring twice because boundaries are important, especially with people who can remotely brick your car out of spite.

On the third ring, I answer.

“Good morning, my beloved and cherished nuisance.”

“Do not good morning me,” Penelope snaps, her voice bursting through the speakers bright and furious and obviously hopped up on energy drinks. “You absolute pink menace,” she continues, apparently having already started this sentence somewhere in the emotional lobby of her apartment and dragged it all the way into my car. “I sat there for forty-seven minutes listening to dead air like a Victorian wife waiting for news from the war. You were supposed to be on comms, damn it!”

“I was on a rooftop. That’s basically like being on comms with God.”

“Don’t you dare fucking patronize me, Amiyah Lane.” her voice is stern.

Penelope has been in my ear longer than anyone. Before being employed with the underground, before the training, back when this life still belonged to our parents and we were just little girls who knew better than to ask questions at the dinner table. Life was simple then.