Cynthia blows out a long breath, her eyes brightening with the compliment. “Well, I don’t know about that. It’s been a process, that’s for sure. But I’ve been lucky to have a lot of support from other women.” I nod, looking down at my nails as I cultivate an expression that says I’m such a lost and lonely little lamb, Cynthia. “What does your preacher father think of you being a yogi?”

My groan carries an edge of bitterness. “You’ll be shocked to hear he hates it. But it’s helping me to find some peace, you know?”

“Yeah,” Cynthia says. “I get that.”

The thrill of being so close to my newest prize is the only thing that keeps my irritation at bay for having to suffer through this small talk and nail situation as our manicures progress. I ask Cynthia a few questions about her line of work, and she describes her role as the senior VP of a health and wellness company, but I don’t ask anything too prying that would get her hackles up. I give her some fake details on my history when she asks, pulling from the backstory I’ve created. Wealthy parents. Hints of religious trauma. A sprinkle of shaky confidence as I describe wanting to take a break from undergraduate studies to “find myself.” Every tiny detail is like a drop of paint on a canvas. If I add too much color, Cynthia might spot the story as a lie. But if I give her just enough, she’ll fill in the picture and paint me into the person she wants to see. Hopefully one who’s the perfect fit for Legio Agni.

Eventually, we move along to the pedicure chairs, which is a new kind of torture, but my suffering is thankfully rewarded later when we both pay at reception. A caring smile lights Cynthia’s feature as she takes her receipt. “You know what Neriah, I think you might enjoy my women’s group.”

Fucking finally. “Oh? What is the group for?”

“Basically, it’s a community of like-minded ladies who encourage and empower each other to live our truths through health, well-being, and mindfulness,” Cynthia says, almost as though she’s reciting corporate propaganda.

“You know, I think that’s just the kind of thing I need. And if you want, I’d be happy to teach a beginner’s yoga class. Just to like…contribute.”

Cynthia beams as we head toward the doors. “That would be wonderful. Here, let me give you my number.” I open up my contacts on my burner phone, already loaded with fake numbers just in case, and I hand it to Cynthia. “We usually meet at six every second Saturday, and the location often changes. I’ll text you the details,” Cynthia says as she taps out her contact information.

“Awesome, thanks so much. As long as I don’t have a conflict with classwork, I’ll be there. I can send you some guidance for what to wear, but I’ll bring the mats,” I reply as I send her a message with my fake last name to complete the exchange. When she invariably looks me up later, she’ll find everything she needs to fill in the painting of Neriah Cameron, Melancholy Moneyed Lambchop, and potential new recruit.

We say our goodbyes as Cynthia’s bodyguard gives me a quick dismissive glance, and then she’s off, speeding away to her three o’clock meeting with a supplements distributor. I watch with a farewell wave before I head to my condo with a triumphant smile. After a quick change, I walk to campus to pick up my car and then head directly to Cedar Ridge where I find Samuel reading in the common room.

“Bria.”

“Uncle.”

“How was the party?” he asks as I kiss his cheeks.

“Lovely. Edward appreciated the gesture. You didn’t have to go to such lengths.”

“Bah,” he says with a wave. “Edward is the only one who smuggles Pont Neuf in when he comes, unlike some visitors.”

I smile and his eyes glint beneath the film of age. “You’re not supposed to drink wine.”

“I’m an old man. I can do as I please.”

“You always have.”

“Indeed,” Samuel says as he motions for me to bring his wheelchair closer. “How was the nail salon?”

“Very productive, thank you. I even made a new friend. I’ve been invited to a women’s group, which will help me ‘live my truth,’” I say with air quotes as Samuel rolls his eyes with a snort. “It’s been a good day.”

Samuel’s expression turns diabolical. “It’s about to get better.”

“Is that so.”

“Yes. We’re going to have a pillow fight.”

I laugh as I take hold of Samuel’s elbow, lowering him into his wheelchair. A murderous glimmer reflects in his smoky eyes when I give him a dark grin. “A pillow fight. Really.”

“Yes. We haven’t had such a game for a long time,” he replies as I wheel him toward the polished floor of the empty hallway leading to his room.

I lean over Samuel’s shoulder to whisper in his ear. “That’s because your little game might land us both in jail.”

“Nonsense,” Samuel grumbles, waving a hand in my direction to shoo me away. I notice the slightest tremor in his fingers. He’s tired. His age is creeping in. I know I’m powerless to stop time, but I still loathe the evidence of its inescapable grip.

We turn into Samuel’s room and I push him toward his desk, knowing this is where he’ll want to go. “Who is it?”

“Richard Piston”

I bark a laugh. “Dick Piston? Are you serious? He deserves it for that name alone. What did he do?”

“He stole my shoes.”

“Doesn’t that happen daily in places like this? Do you kill everyone who steals your things?”

“Yes.”

“Fair point.”

“He also said I shouldn’t be playing with computers. Those are for kids. Ageist prick.”

“Yes, that’s a little uncalled for.” I sit on the edge of the bed and watch as Samuel logs into his computer and starts typing, his fingers moving with a musician’s precision. There’s no need to ask what he’s doing, I already know, and we don’t waste words between us. He’s taking over the security cameras, and likely creating a diversion with the front desk computers to occupy the staff.

“Room eighteen. He always naps at this time. He’s asleep now.” Samuel locks his computer screen and pulls open a drawer in his desk, reaching in to release a hidden compartment. He removes two pairs of leather gloves and a pre-filled syringe of SUX, stuffing the capped needle under his leg. He lays his phone in his lap, the cameras feeding through on its screen, then motions for me to come forward as he slips on one pair of gloves. “I’ll inject, you keep him quiet. The dose will paralyze but he’ll remain awake. I want him to hear me. Then you will finish it.”

I let go of a deep sigh as I cross my arms and we stare at one another. “This seems reckless. What happened to ‘kill every risk that would kill you first’?”

“The risks have been mitigated,” he replies, waving his phone in the air as though it’s a sufficient explanation. My eyebrows climb and he fixes me with a hard glare. “I can set off any alarm, any piece of critical equipment to divert staff away. Besides, they’ll be busy preparing for dinner and the evening medication dispensary.”

“Perhaps being at Cedar Ridge isn’t so good for you after all, Samuel. It’s as though you’ve suddenly discovered fast food and now you’re addicted. We’re not exactly going for cheeseburgers, you know.” Samuel’s glare turns brutally cold. A reminder of who we both are, and the roles we inhabit. Two predators in the same territory. A careful balance we’ve always tread. I can push, but only as far as he’ll let me. My arms drop to my sides and I shake my head. “Fine. But if I’m discovered and sent to prison, I am taking you with me.”

“Psshhh,” he hisses. His eyes soften to their resting level of cutting intensity. “Do not fault an old man for wanting to spend quality time with his favorite niece.”

“I’m your only niece. And technically not.”

“Irrelevant nonsense,” he grumbles. “Now get on with it. I don’t want to be last in line for the lasagna.”

I smile before I duck behind him, taking up the handles of his wheelchair. A buzz of excitement skitters through my skin as we exit his room and head down the hall to room eighteen. It’s not the same swirling rush I feel when I spring a carefully laid trap around my prey. That’s different. Transformative. Like I’m a bottle filled with lightning. Like I could shatter and this power would explode around me, consuming everything it touches.