Page 4 of Lethal in Pink

Well, as simple as it could have been for the children of assassins.

Back when Penelope and I thought “business trip” meant our fathers were accountants and “never touch the locked cabinet” was normal parenting.

Spoiler alert: it was not.

“I’m sorry for making you worry. It won’t happen again.”

My fingers are crossed.

“Liar.”

She knows.

“You can’t just vanish mid-op because you’re feeling artisanal and independent.”

“I didn’t vanish. I was right where I said I’d be.”

“Without audio.” I can hear clicking in the background, the manic little taps of a frustrated Penelope’s nails on a keyboard. “What if someone had noticed you? All I’m saying is, it’s my job to keep you safe out there and it’s kind of hard when you go all lone cunt-ish Sniper Barbie.” she says, and underneath all the caffeine fizz and outrage, I hear the genuine concern in her voice and it makes my heart sputter.

Damn her.

I hate when she makes my heart do something unscheduled.

It’s rude.

“Sniper Barbie feels cliche,” I say, keeping my voice light because anything heavier will turn the inside of this car into a feelings aquarium and I absolutely do not have time to swim in that storm right now. “Next time I won’t turn off my comms, okay?”

A pause, then a sigh.

“Okay, you better not.” she finally says. “The twins have already made an appearance and wiped the crime scene. I’ll let you know when I have your next file.”

Damn, the twins are quick.

“Thanks, Penelope. I’ll talk to you soon. Love youuu.”

She laughs, “Love you too, bitch.”

There's a click and then silence.

My neighborhood appears a few minutes later, my apartment building towering over the palm-lined street like a very expensive black monolith trying to pretend it isn’t homing a ton of murder consultants.

The Obsidian catches the first faint bruising of dawn on its glass skin, all sleek angles and tinted windows. The valet at the front pulls his little black jacket tighter around himself and lifts a hand as I glide into the circular drive, because in this building even the dawn shift looks like it was cast by a luxury perfume campaign.

“Morning, Ms. Lane,” he says.

“Morning, Theo.” I smile the kind of smile that says I am a sweet, harmless law student and not someone currently transporting a disassembled rifle in a camera case.

Even though The Obsidian is home to some of us that work for the underground, most individuals that are residents are completely clueless that it’s owned by an elite society of professionals that dabble in the art of deception, who prefer their operatives to live in comfort.

The valet, Theo, is definitely one of the clueless ones.

His main concerns are parking cars and remembering which resident gets the Wall Street Journal and which gets the LA Times.

Theo steps forward and opens my door, a courtesy of The Obsidian. I step out, and make my way to the trunk and grab out the black case taking up its space. My hand dips down in my purse and I pull out my wallet and hand him a generous tip out of it before slipping inside the lobby and to the elevators.

I walk down the hall a beat, turn to the hall on the right and my apartment is the fifth door down, once inside, I set the case on the coffee table, open my laptop, and pull up the Evidence Law syllabus while the shower heats up. Today’s topic is hearsay exceptions. Ironic, given that the man currently cooling on a penthouse rug will never bear witness to anything again.

The shower is hot and exactly what I need. About twenty minutes later I’m dressing in a blush pink fitted blouse that drapes at the shoulder and a cream pleated mini skirt. My hair is still damp when I blow dry it into soft waves, framing my face with the kind of calculated effortlessness that takes forty-five minutes to achieve.