Page 466 of Lessons in Cruelty

It’s almost good enough to eradicate the bitter tang of chemicals coating the back of my throat, or the suddenly urgent pitter-patter of my heart.

I crank up Chopin’s C-sharp minor as I wait for the rain to ease. Draping my wrist over the Tesla’s steering wheel, I mimic the pianist’s fingertips as I imagine them dancing over smooth ivory.

Chopin wrote it as if he were already mourning his own death, every note a poor decision, or destroyed hope. Pained and tortured.

How fitting.

I’m practically invisible out here in the dark with the Tesla’s matte black wrap, and I savor my intentional isolation as much as the numbness spreading in my gums, contrasting so deliciously with the heightened awareness of every other sense and thought.

Evelyn insisted her children played at least one musical instrument. I gravitated toward the piano, because that was something she couldn’t play herself, so she fucked off and left me alone when I was practicing.

My sister, Sybil, made the mistake of picking up the violin. Probably had romantic notions about it. Evelyn excelled at many things, but teaching her daughter to play the violin wasn’t one of them. It’s not that Sybil wasn’t smart enough to learn. Evelyn just didn’t have the patience to teach her.

Pain stings through my finger where I’d been biting the knuckle. I rip my fist away from my mouth, pressing it against my thigh.

Christ. Enough of that.

As if the universe finds my annoyance hilarious, laughter bursts out nearby. I quickly seal the drugs and toss them in my glove box, glancing aside as a pair of girls stagger toward, then fall into, a nearby car.

The vehicle drives off, prompting me to start the Tesla. But I don’t pull off right away, letting the car idle for a moment.

If I carry on down this road and make a left, I’ll be passing Haven’s sorority.

I could stop in for a midnight snack.

It’ll give her the opportunity to explain to me why the hell she thought it was a wise idea to ignore me.

I know she accepted my gift. I cloned the phone before having it delivered to her. She goes into VibeFeed a few times a day, mostly to scroll aimlessly through her feed, and every so often to reread the messages I’ve sent her.

If I can lure her downstairs without waking the other girls, I’ll let her give me head in the car to make up for it.

I rake a hand through my hair as I turn onto Greek Row.

Despite feeling like garbage today, I made a point of showering and getting dressed in charcoal slacks and a dove gray button-up shirt. It made me feel better for all of a second, but as soon as I saw the shattered glass of my sliding door, my mood soured again.

My to-do list is growing, and everything seems like a fucking top priority. Replacing my glass door. Cleaning the neon body paint from the carpet. Getting the Tesla’s upholstery steam cleaned…although I’m in two minds about whether to just replace it at this stage.

The ghost of Bobby Lee—his grimy clothes, his stinking breath, his foul temperament—haunts this vehicle and is determined to stay no matter how many pine-shaped air fresheners I hang from the rearview.

I frown when I see flickering blue and red lights through the torrential downpour up ahead.

It takes my frazzled mind much too long to figure out what the hell they are. By the time I do, I’m only a few yards away.

I veer toward the sidewalk, ducking to peer through the windshield as I slow my car to a halt. Two police cruisers are parked outside a sorority house, one belonging to campus police, the other to the local sheriff’s department.

Haven’s sorority.

It can’t possibly have anything to do with me. I’m not a fucking rookie anymore—I know how to cover my tracks.

So what then? Did someone OD again? Or was there another ‘he-said, she-said’ situation involving too much liquor and a couple of kids regretting the extra digit they added to their body count?

The urge to sate my curiosity is strong, but I don’t need the cops asking what I’m doing in Greek Row this time of night. Especially with this much marching powder and an eighth of Corbin’s epic free weed in my glove box.

I guide the car back onto the road and take off as fast as I dare, getting the hell out of the cops’ radius before someone spots my car.

I’m about halfway down Greek Row when someone runs right in front of my car.

If it hadn’t been for the Tesla’s ABS, the kid would be dead.