Execute (Original)

[TotalAbsolutism]

The situation had finally become truly desperate.

Snow had fallen overnight. I had only my school jacket on me and it wasn't nearly warm enough to keep me warm. If I was careful I could hide out in the library during the day but I'd run out of food over the weekend and there was no way I could go to one of the city's soup kitchens without drawing… questions.

Which meant I needed money. I regretted not buying a blanket when I'd still had funds. Maybe I should have invested in some preserved food, too. My last note had been wasted on a bowl of hot noodles which was, while delicious, not nearly worth the amount I'd so unwisely spent on it.

I'd already sold my phone and laptop at two different pawnbrokers with no intention of buying them back. Unlike other girls my age I hadn't had any jewellery to trade in, as mother didn't approve of it, but my backpack had been a designer brand good for another little bit of cash. I'd bought a cheaper replacement for it but had sold that too when I'd run out of things to keep in it.

All that I had left was my uniform and shoes. Not much. The shoes weren't nice enough to sell. I couldn't exactly go around without something on my feet and whatever amount I got wouldn't be enough to trade down and get food. For obvious reasons the uniform was right out. There wasn't much left to me.

On the one hand, I could go home. Or I could sit in the snowed-out cardboard box that I'd slept in overnight until I passed out from exhaustion, hunger and cold. The latter sounded like the more attractive option by far. Alternatively… well, I wasn't naive. I knew what the only thing of value I had left was.

It took me the better part of a day to make my way to the 'right' part of town. Some of the other girls at school had spoken about it once in hushed towns; gossiping about an upperclassman who'd supposedly been seen there with an older man. I had to keep an eye out for anyone I recognised, but hopefully they'd just see the uniform and not me.

By the time I worked up the courage to approach someone it was already dusk. The man I picked was moving in all the right ways. His steps were nervous, he halted now and then, scanned the streets, eyed up the various women plying their wares and had a hand pressed to where his wallet probably was.

"H-hey, mister…" I swallowed heavily as the man looked at me. His eyes lit up in a manner I'd seen a few times since I'd come on to the streets. This time, however, it wasn't a sign that I had to cut and run. "You, um… want some… company?" As I said that I pulled my jacket open a little bit to show off my uniform underneath.

He quickly glanced from side to side and then jerked his head towards the side street near us. Dark. Secluded. Exactly where I didn't want to go. But… who knew how long it might be before I got a taker, otherwise? He probably just didn't want to… to be seen with me, given…

Once we were off the street he looked me up and down. Even though I was dirty I'd done my best with what I could. There were places a girl could get a shower for free, if she could look pitiful enough, but I hadn't been able to wash my clothes. Even so it seemed he liked what he saw.

"How, ah… old are you?" He practically whispered the question. The tone in his voice made me feel sick to my stomach.

"Eighteen… obviously…" I lied through my teeth and hoped he wouldn't ask for any ID, while simultaneously wishing that he would. But I'd been able to tell from his reaction that it wasn't going to happen.

"Right… obviously… how much…?" I bit my lip. This was the moment of truth.

"Fifty for… a blow. Hundred for it all. T-two hundred for the night." He looked hesitant, so I gritted my teeth and played my final card. "I'm offering it discounted 'cause it's my… my first time." The look on his face genuinely made me want to vomit. He yanked his wallet out immediately and pulled a fifty off from the wad of bills there.

"Well let's, ah… start with this, then, and see how we g-" He stopped at the sound of running feet and then turned just in time to take a fist straight to his face. The man caught himself on his hands and cried out in pain as he skinned them on the concrete.

"Get the fuck out of here, creep!" My 'saviour' kicked the downed guy and then grabbed my hand suddenly. I was pulled away without even the chance to grab the note that had fluttered out of the buyer's hand.

It wasn't until we stopped a few streets over that I was able to catch my breath and get a good look at the person who had 'rescued' me. They were… they were… shit, they were handsome. Like, really, really handsome.

I'd never encountered someone who I'd call a 'pretty boy' before, but if this guy didn't fit that definition than nobody did. He had gorgeously maintained black hair, delicate features and beautiful grey eyes that were stared back into mine. I could feel my heart start to pound faster.

"Hey? Hello?" He snapped his fingers near my ear and I almost jumped out of my skin. "I said, are you alright? That creep didn't hurt you, did he?" I frowned immediately, but couldn't exactly explain that he hadn't been… accosting me, so I just shook my head. "You shouldn't be out here this late anyway. Do you want me to call your parents?"

"No!" I shouted that just a bit too quickly and his expression became suddenly concerned. "I… I mean… you don't have to…" He sighed and looked away.

"Runaway, huh. Is there anyone you can go to?" Again I shook my head and he rolled his eyes. That hurt, just a bit.

"Okay. Well… ugh, why don't you come home with me? I'll give you a good meal, a warm bed, and in the morning I can introduce you to some people who can probably help with… whatever situation you've got going on at home." The offer sounded good. Way too good. That was even with what I had been… about to do.

"I… shouldn't. I don't know who you are." I tried not to sound sheepish but clearly failed given the disbelieving eyebrow he raised at me. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and held something out to me. I read it nervously.

"Malcolm Rook… registered social worker? You, uh… you don't look like a 'Malcolm'." He let out a little snort which turned into a chuckle.

"I don't…? Okay then. Here, this too." The card he handed to me, after taking back his other ID, was his driver's license. It stared at the age listed on the card and then looked back up at him.

"Twenty-nine? You're joking." That got me another chuckle and a shrug as he took the card back. "Alright. I guess… I can trust you." Even if I couldn't, it's not like things could get much worse for me. If I considered what I'd been willing to do for money then even the worst case scenario… didn't seem all that bad.

Malcolm took me back to his car. I didn't know anything about brands or models but it didn't look that fancy. Made sense, for a social worker. We drove in silence together for nearly half an hour before he pulled into a house that looked a bit upmarket from what I'd expected. Nothing like my family's penthouse apartment but still… maybe he'd invested well.

He showed me to the guest bedroom, which I noted had a lock on the door, and left me to have a shower while he went down to the kitchen. When I'd finished there were some other clothes laid out for me. Thankfully they were men's; I'm not sure what I'd have done if he'd had teen girl clothes just… lying around.

I found him in the kitchen where he was rummaging through the drawers and pulling out various bits of cookware. It was a nice spot, actually; there were high seats at the island counter I could sit on to watch him cook.

"So. How about we start with your name?" Being addressed was unexpected, as he hadn't turned around from the stove since I'd come in, but I'd prepared for this while I was getting changed.

"Jane." Malcolm turned to stare at me over his shoulder with an incredulous expression. I turned red when he held the look until finally I broke down and mumbled something else. "... Mira. It's… it's short for… for 'Miracle'." When he didn't laugh I dared to look up at him and found he was maintaining a calm, even gaze.

"Okay. I checked for missing persons, but nothing matching your description. Either you just ran away from home today… or nobody's reported you missing." That… stung. Of course I hadn't expected her to be anything other than happy that I was gone, but even so…

"Figures. My… I won't be missed." He shrugged and turned back to break an egg into the pan.

"I hear that a lot in my line of work. But I find that people are usually wrong. Would you like to talk about it?" I bit back my initial response, which would have been just a sharp 'no', and thought about it for a moment. Ever since this had all started, I'd never really spoken to anyone about… what had happened. He was a stranger, so he wasn't likely to end up telling me I was wrong, or had to be imagining things, right?

"... my mother never wanted me. She made that clear my whole life. And my father… he was rich. Capital 'R'; Rich. So she never had to have anything to do with me. But she did… when she wanted to… 'work out some frustrations'. I was a punching bag, rather than a daughter."

Now that I'd started the words just tumbled out of me. It was like a weight had been lifted.

"Father never… never did anything to stop her. In public we were the perfect happy family. She was… very good at seeming like a kind, loving mother. But as soon as we were home I'd be having strips torn off me for something. Didn't smile enough. 'Backtalk'. Embarrassing her in front of her friends."

I grabbed my left arm and squeezed it as hard as I could just to stop the trembling. My rubber bands had finally broken days ago and I hadn't been able to justify buying more to myself but right now I wished I had one.

"My grades were never good enough. I didn't have any talents. She didn't even like my face."

There were streaks in my hair still, as the natural colour grew out. I'd inherited red hair from my father's side of the family, but mother had always dyed it brown so I looked like her. The only time I could recall my father standing up to her was when he'd refused to pay for a nose job for me. She hadn't liked that I didn't have her nose.

"Then… maybe three weeks ago… I was told at school that my father had died. Food allergy. Cross-contamination in the kitchen. When I thought about going home to just her, I… I couldn't take it. So I ran away."

Malcolm finally took the pan off the heat and put it aside. Then he turned to look at me. His expression was… I wasn't entirely sure, actually. Pity was something I knew, as was disgust. This wasn't either of those, but felt similar somehow. He sighed and began to search through the cupboards again. With each new one he opened he swore quietly.

"Where are the damn plates in this stupid house…" I blinked a few times and looked over at him, feeling rather confused.

"Shouldn't you know that? It's your house." He shook his head and I froze.

"No, it's not." Another cupboard opened and closed.

"House-sitting?" He shook his head again. The knife block was on the island. I reached over to it and drew out one of the longer ones as quietly as I could.

"Nope. I, aha! There they are." At last he'd located plates. He pulled out one and dished up the omelette he'd made on to it, then turned to me. The knife was sitting gently in my lap, just out of view. "Anyway, owners died in a plane crash a few days ago. Pulled some strings, made some people sit on the paperwork, so it'll take at least a week before next of kin are notified and someone comes for the house."

Malcolm smiled, put some cutlery on the plate, slid it across the island, and then sat down opposite me. His hand dipped into his jacket pocket and came out holding a small black pistol with an elongated barrel that he pointed directly at my chest.

"It's a nice story, Miss Stirling. Now, why don't you have a bite to eat and you can tell me the rest of it. But this time, make sure to explain exactly how you poisoned your father. And why, come to think of it. Because I have just been dying to know."

 

[TotalAbsolutism]

My head felt like it was going to explode.

Every heartbeat was agony. An excruciating wave of pressure throbbed through my body as I desperately tried to wrack my brain for a way out of this situation. Everything seemed to fade away as reality distilled itself down to me and the barrel of that gun. If I… if I could just get him to turn away for a moment…

"Oh, and please put the knife on the table and slide it over to me. Slowly. I'm interested in your story, but not so much so that I won't just shoot you if I have to." He kept his aim steady and watched my eyes instead of my hands. I swallowed hard and carefully lifted the knife off my lap and put it on the counter between us, then pushed. The blade spun a few times on the smooth surface before he reached out and stopped it by pressing one finger to the top.

"You're insane. Why would I-" Before I could finish he snorted and twitched his hand up and to the left. There was a startlingly loud 'pop' and smoke poured forth from the barrel. I'd heard the shot buzz past my head and even felt the shockwave against my face; though perhaps I had imagined that.

"The story, Miss Stirling. From the beginning." I stared at him as I tried to think of something else. Throw the plate? He'd fire straight away, though. Maybe if I got him to look away, but his situational awareness seemed too… and even then, what after?

"And… and then what? Will you… let me go?" His subsequent smirk said it all and I sagged in my seat. This was it, then. I was going to die. In which case… I might as well tell someone.

"It started… I'm not sure when… but I only really noticed it when I was around ten…"

At that time I hadn't understood all of it, of course. It wasn't until a few years after that when I realised what my mother had truly wanted me to be. The reason I had that stupid, stupid name. I was her 'Miracle', after all.

Doctors had told her and my father that they'd almost certainly never be able to have children. I was never told why, but it was definitely a problem with her and not him. Anyone could tell I was my father's daughter at a glance. Similarities between me and her took longer to discern. Something in the cheek bones, perhaps, or around the set of our eyes. It was there but… vague. Not enough.

Mother had wanted two things. First, she'd hoped for me to be an obedient little doll. I'd be dressed up in all the fine things she'd never been able to afford before she'd married my father. Signed up for all the fancy activities that the child her hadn't been allowed to have. Ballet lessons, piano tutoring, horse riding and lacrosse, synchronised swimming… all of that and an expectation that my schoolwork be flawless.

Before I had realised what was going on I'd been excited for the moments of success. When my mother would smile and look so very happy. Then I'd come to understand why she was only happy with me when I succeeded at something she'd chosen. My creative writing project, or my art piece, or my school record for the hundred metre dash; all were met with disdain.

Because the second thing my mother wanted was for me to be her. Every time I did well she could lose herself in the fantasy of her success. Failure was like popping that little bubble of insane self-delusion that she'd built for herself. Her endless refrains demanding that I be grateful, that I not squander these opportunities she'd never had… they still went around in the back of my mind even now.

"... I had to escape." I'd sagged well into the seat. At some point he'd pushed the plate closer and I'd started to eat almost reflexively. It was good. Not what I'd have chosen for a last meal but the mixture of egg and cheese with diced sausages had a pleasant taste that was belied by its simplicity.

"Child services couldn't have gotten me away from them. No evidence of abuse, public record of exemplary behaviour, and my father was… rich, and powerful. When I finally found a way out… I took it." The last bit of the meal vanished and I finally looked back up at him. He blinked a few times and then his grin widened. I wondered what my face must look like to him, now that I'd given up all pretense of hiding how I felt.

"Beautiful. I've not seen eyes like that on someone so young in a long time. It explains a lot." His fingers drummed a little tune into the countertop that I didn't recognise. The same set of beats repeated over and over. "That's the bit I don't get, though. Why not your mother?"

"She didn't have a lethal allergy. Father did." My tone was so neutral that I even surprised myself. I'd expected that when I finally admitted it my voice would have broken. That some emotion would have overwhelmed me. Any emotion. But I felt nothing. "Shellfish allergy. Our cook makes… made him a meal every day that he took to work. It's left unattended in the fridge for maybe two, three minutes…"

Of course there wasn't even any shellfish in the entire kitchen. The cook was a professional who knew their client's needs. Father's meals had their own cooking station and equipment as well to avoid any possible risk of cross-contamination even if, somehow, a shellfish dish had made it into the kitchen.

"While I was getting my own lunchbox I opened his and added oyster sauce to the rice. That was that. He always kept an epinephrine injector in his bag, but I'd swapped it out for an expired one that I'd 'borrowed' from my school." Once I'd decided to do it everything had been surprisingly… easy. This explanation seemed to dissatisfy 'Malcolm', though, and he frowned at me.

"No, no, no. You exploited his allergen, made it impossible for him to get treatment in time; that's good. I'm impressed, really. But why not just get something actually poisonous, and feed it to your mother?" The way he said it made it sound so obvious that I couldn't help but scoff. Fear gripped me a moment later when I realised what I'd just done but he didn't seem to care. After taking a moment to soothe my nerves I continued.

"Father would have tried to find me. Succeeded. He'd have applied his resources to the problem until I appeared. Even if he wasn't… responsible… he still just let it happen. I didn't want to see him again. But mother... " I dug my nails into my forearm to stop my voice from breaking. Why was it that saying this hurt? After everything she'd done to me? "... she'd have been upset about losing her toy… but too happy about gaining father's entire fortune to care."

This time 'Malcolm' slowly nodded as my reasoning was laid out. There were probably… other solutions. Things I hadn't been able to see. Poisoning my father had been rather extreme, but at the time… what else could I have done? That woman wouldn't have been happy with anything less than my total submission. I had felt myself breaking down day by day.

"Well. Thank you. Now there's just one last thing. By chance, do you happen to have twenty million dollars?" The question came more or less out of nowhere and I became a deer in headlights as I stared blankly at the man who still had me held at gunpoint.

"I… no? I don't… I don't have anything. Any money my father might have left me I wouldn't get until I was eighteen, and I don't think he did leave me anything." 'Malcolm' sighed and began to tap his fingers again.

"Pity. Because I don't have twenty million dollars right now, either. Only the difference is that I don't have my money… because of you." I didn't know what I could possibly say to that, so I stayed silent. His smile was gone now and an inscrutable emptiness had taken its place. Was that how I looked, now? "You see, Miss Stirling, my business, my actual line of work, is death. Murder, if you wish to be pedantic. I am an assassin. I kill for money.

And just like that it all clicked. I'd wondered if this man had been somehow sent by my mother to tidy up. Arguably, this was worse. "Twenty million dollars sitting in escrow, waiting for your father to die in a particular way at a particular time; all agreed upon in advance. The purpose of which would have been to allow certain people to take advantage of the chaos and seize control of his company. But then he died early, and none of them were ready. So my money… poof."

I finally noticed that his tapping had taken on the rhythm of my heartbeat. Or perhaps my heartbeat had synchronised with his tapping. Ba-dum. Ba-DUM. Over and over. I awaited the moment, now. When both would stop. I could feel it hanging there like a sword over my neck.

The tapping ceased.

My arms, resting heavily on the countertop, very nearly gave way from shock. While I reeled from the sudden destabilising of my psyche he calmly put the gun back into his inner pocket and rested his chin on his steepled hands.

"Now… Let us discuss how you're going to pay me back."

 

[TotalAbsolutism]

It surprised me how little impact that statement had. Maybe if it had been a smaller amount it would be something I could have imagined myself actually repaying with sufficient effort, but… twenty million was an amount that I just couldn't visualise. My father had been wealthy, obscenely so, but I hadn't been.

This was an excuse. He wanted something from me. If I could figure out what, then maybe I could… do what, exactly? Outsmart the assassin who found me, intervened when I was most vulnerable, brought me to a secluded location and then made me confess to murdering my father?

"I already told you, I don't have anything." Only my uniform, my jacket, and the clothes I had on now. Plus their contents, I supposed. Anything I'd had in the pockets I'd swapped over when I'd changed, but there was nothing there that would help me against him.

"In point of fact, you have two things of value to me. Firstly, your body." I recoiled from him instantly and he raised one eyebrow at me. "What? Ah… ugh! No, fuck no; I like women my own age, thank you. Not little girls." That came as a relief, certainly, and I resisted the urge to insist that I wasn't a 'little girl'. It felt like it wouldn't help.

He began to tap out a new rhythm and I did my best to ignore it. When he continued it was with a smug air that was somehow frustrating. "And, actually, that commodity isn't quite as hot as you seem to think. Even if I was willing to deal in that sort of thing, and I'm not, I could get maybe one to two thousand a pop from the right buyers at most. Whereas…"

The knife that had been left in front of him spun into the air suddenly and he caught it with one hand. He pointed the tip at my heart and then began to twist it around in slicing motions. "Hundred fifty thousand for each kidney. Liver goes cheaper, maybe fifty, but the lungs would be a decent enough commodity. Half a million for your heart easily. With those sorts of prices I'd be a fool to waste my time renting."

'Malcolm' twirled the knife over the top of his hand and then balanced it precariously on one knuckle. Even without the gun he was showing just how confident he was. My life was in his hands and we both knew it. "But no. We'll call that 'Plan B'. See, poisoning your father? Pedestrian effort, though I give you points for trying to make it look like an accident. Would have been better to do it at a restaurant though; bit suspicious for your personal cook to make that sort of mistake."

"... w-wait, I… if you killed my mother, then I'd, I'd inherit, right? So you could, uh, still complete your other contract, a-and-" The blade flashed and was buried into the wooden counter between us an instant later. I stared at where the point had split the wood; shocked into silence.

"First intelligent thing you've said all evening, Miss Stirling. There's a few flaws, however. If my clients had been prepared then swiping the company out from under your mother would have been child's play; alas, it all came as a shock and they weren't in place yet. Now it will be much harder and much less profitable." How they would've managed that I had no idea, but he was certainly right about one thing. I couldn't imagine my mother letting even a cent of father's potential value escape her clutches now.

"Now, then there's you. Certainly, if your mother dies you stand to inherit everything. All the shares, the stocks, the bonds, and so on. The 'money', as it were." He waved a hand vaguely in the air to indicate things he clearly thought I wouldn't grasp. "But… you can't actually do anything with it for two years. It would be held in trust until then; which, if your father is halfway intelligent, will be set up in such a way that nobody can touch it."

Which was a given. The only stupid thing my father had done in his life, as far as I could tell, was marrying my mother. That and not getting a vasectomy at a young age. "Really, if I wanted to try and complete the contract regardless I'd be better off killing both of you. Unfortunately, that would arouse more suspicion than I'd like. Which is why you're going to kill your mother."

The effect would have been less if he'd punched me in the gut. I almost retched from the thought of it. With father it had been… easy, yes, but I'd not even really had to do anything. Just sprinkle some sauce in the wrong place. While I tried to recover he idly reached across the table and slid the plate off to one side.

"I can't just… do that! You can't expect me t-" My words died on my tongue when the gun reappeared in his hand suddenly. I hadn't even seen him draw it. The amusement he'd had moments ago was now gone; replaced with a dull, tense irritation.

"Alright, Miss Stirling. The game has been fun, but enough is enough. Empty your pockets." When I didn't move fast enough he began to tap his fingers on the counter faster. I could recognise a rising tempo when I heard one, and knew what would be at the crescendo of this. Everything I had left was dumped out quickly.

My house keys clattered out first, followed by a loose handful of small change; sixty-seven cents worth exactly. An empty public transport card skidded across the wood next along with my school cardkey and its lanyard. I hesitated just a moment when I gripped the last item but from the look on his face I could tell that he knew I had it. How he knew…

The lipstick tube bounced across the table and rolled to his side. He stopped it with a finger and then opened it one-handed. There wasn't anything left in it, and it had been low quality stuff to begin with, but that wasn't the point. He shifted his grip and pulled the top part off as well to reveal the puny knife underneath.

It wasn't much at all. The blade was maybe a couple of centimetres long at best and not even all that sharp. Certainly no threat to anyone. Yet he looked at it like it was the most valuable prize in the world. Then his eyes fixed back on mine. He swept all of it aside, on to the floor, with one arm. "Now the other thing, Miss Stirling. Slowly, if you please." I stiffened up and tried not to make any sudden movements.

"How long have you been watching me?" It couldn't have been less than a week. Maybe more. 'Malcolm' winked, but didn't answer. I gingerly reached around behind my back and untucked my shirt from my pants. Then I retrieved the two bits of cheap wood that had poking me every time I leaned back too far and placed them on the counter.

Once my hands were off the surface he reached across and pulled them to him. They were, or at least had been, disposable chopsticks. Both had been sharpened to a point. It had taken a while with only the shitty lipstick knife, but I'd had time.

"You were never going to go through with it, were you? Once he'd taken you somewhere nice and secluded…" He twirled my handmade shank between his fingers and then suddenly mimed a stabbing motion right at my face. When I flinched he stopped just as quickly as he'd started and put the weapon back down. "Going to deny it?"

I didn't say anything. He'd be able to tell if I lied to him, so there was no point. That seemed to be amusing because he began to chuckle smugly and shook his head. "My, my, my. What a naughty child you are. There we have it. You'll stay with me for one week. I'll teach you everything you need to kill your mother and clean up the evidence."

He didn't pull the gun away just yet and his eyes didn't leave mine as he spoke. Short taps on the counter punctuated his sentences. "Then, at the end, I'll help you fake your death. You disappear, your family line ends, my client is happy at my ability to adapt, I don't sell your organs for parts. Everyone wins. What do you say?" I took a few long, slow breaths to try and slow my heartbeat. It was hard to do with his constant tapping disrupting my concentration.

"... fake my death?" He nodded and lifted his free hand to brush some hair out of his face.

"Sure. You'll record evidence of her abuse, then wracked with grief you snap and kill her, followed by yourself. Authorities find evidence on 'your' corpse." Emphasis was put on that word with half an air-quote. He didn't use the gun hand for that. "Minus some small details not worth mentioning now. Neat, clean and easy."

"... and since you mentioned it, I'm guessing you're recording this conversation to help make sure I go through with it?" This time the laughter was just a bit less mocking as he reached into the other side of his jacket with his free hand and pulled out a small black device.

"Got it in one, Miss Stirling. I do love working with clever people. Really, though, this should be a no-brainer for you. You get to kill your awful mother, I get my money, and in the end you can just… disappear." The smile he wore was dark and thick with meaning. "No muss, no fuss. Everything nice… and tidy. Well?"

He wasn't even trying to act sincere. I probably would have felt insulted if he had. We both knew that wasn't going to happen. But even so, I nodded. Only through survival could I have the chance to turn things around.

"Fantastic! Now then, we just have to relocate ourselves to an environment more conducive to your tra-" His hand shot across the counter and grabbed me by the throat with firm precision. I tried to claw at his arm, tried to snatch something but everything I could have used as a weapon had been shifted out of my reach during our conversation.

I lost consciousness within seconds.

 

[TotalAbsolutism]

When I awoke I was gagged and bound in what felt to be the boot of a car. It was on the move, based on how I shook and bounced, but I had apparently been well secured amidst a number of pillows and blankets carefully arranged so that I couldn't so much as twist myself in place.

After some time the vehicle stopped. A door opened and slammed, then there was silence for a moment until I heard another door slide open. Something was moved above me and a compartment was opened up. I blinked in the sudden light only to find that I had apparently been concealed beneath the floor of a minivan. Somewhere beyond the door I could hear the cry of gulls and the sound of ships.

'Malcolm' leaned over me and pulled me out of the hollow; carrying me like a trussed-up pig between what looked to be shipping containers. He stopped beside one and opened the lock on it, then stepped inside. I was dropped on something soft while he walked away into the dark space. Everything lit up suddenly and I tried in vain to shield my eyes against the brightness.

We were in a surprisingly spacious room that, from what I could see, appeared to have been made by connecting the interiors of a number of adjacent cargo containers. The furnishings were modest compared to what I was used to but didn't look cheap, at least. A simple couch, rugs, dining table and one chair, even a television. My captor was by a light switch that he had just clearly flicked on. Then he began to walk back over to me.

"How's your head? Feeling dizzy, dehydrated, need a bathroom break? Rope too tight?" I was taken aback at the sudden barrage of questions and focused on myself for a moment in order to self-assess. My head definitely felt fuzzy but not too bad. Thirst was negligible, and I didn't need the toilet. As for my restraints… when I tried to wiggle a bit I found that they were disturbingly expert. However… I eagerly awaited the moment when he reached me and removed my gag.

"You! You choked me! Why did you do that?" The last thing I could recall before I'd woken up was him grabbing me. It had happened so quickly. Awake one second and gone the next. Any thoughts I might have had of resistance had been crushed in an instant. He'd systematically removed all of my defensive measures while keeping me engaged in conversation and then… it sent shivers down my spine when I imagined what he could have done if his intentions had been bad. Well… worse.

"So you wouldn't be able to tell where I was taking you. Well, first of all, I acknowledge you're clever enough to have some idea of where we are, regardless of my attempts to obfuscate it." Good. Because if he thought I couldn't figure out we were in a shipping warehouse at the port then I'd have been even more insulted than I already was. "But now on the off-chance you do end up going to the authorities instead of following through with our plan you won't have anything more precise than that."

He shrugged and rolled me onto my side so he could check the ropes around my shoulders and legs. "In the time it takes them to find this place I'll have long since triggered all of my failsafes and vanished." Apparently satisfied he grinned down at me and patted me on the head.

"Now, get comfortable! I need to clean up." Then he turned to walk to the other side of the room. From how the couch was arranged I couldn't see at least half of it like this and he quickly passed out of sight.

He might have expected me to protest. Something like 'you can't leave me here like this', or what have you. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. There were better things I could do with my time. Like making my escape, and killing him.

Even if I assumed that he wasn't blatantly lying about helping me fake my death, and I wasn't planning to make any assumptions about this man's trustworthiness, there was no guarantee of what might happen to me afterwards. But someone who kills people for money ought to have resources on hand, right? Cash, guns, fake passports, things of that nature. Not all of which would be useful to me as-is but might help me prolong my freedom.

First step was to get out of the ropes. I had… some experience with that. Not a lot, given how little privacy I'd had in my life under my mother's rule, but some. My wrists and ankles were connected by a length of rope and more of it went around me to support my body and turn that rope into an effective handle. A lot of time had been put into making sure I was easy to carry, huh… that bastard.

I could hear the sound of a shower starting somewhere. That's what he'd meant? My first thought had been putting away weapons before he untied me, but all he wanted was a shower? Again I felt like I was being insulted, or underestimated, or both. I'd show him.

Although my range of motion was limited I could turn my head and look around. No convenient knives hung from the walls or were sat out on his surfaces, but… there was a glass on the low table between the couch and the television. That would do. All of my attempts to shuffle sideways were pathetically slow since I couldn't separate my knees.

Even so I managed to slide off the couch and roll towards the table. Landing on my side let me arch my body and shuffle towards the table. When I got there I bumped into the side until the glass finally rolled off it and then broke on the ground. For a few seconds I held still, listening with bated breath. The shower was still running, though, and I couldn't hear any footsteps.

The shards had spread around a bit and I carefully stared at them while trying to commit to memory exactly where they were. Then I rocked from side to side until I rolled over again and carefully reached out until I felt a piece. It wasn't easy to twist it around so I could cut the rope between my feet and hands but when I'd finished the shower was still going.

With my wrists and ankles no longer bound together I was able to move more freely. The glass shard wouldn't be nearly long enough but he had to have a kitchen; if I could get a knife then I could probably cut the binding on my wrists and then… I'd be free… and he would be unarmed and naked.

I stood up and looked straight into the smirking face of 'Malcolm'. He was seated on a chair across the room, in a spot I couldn't have seen from the couch or the floor, and his gun was held loosely in his hand. For a moment he said nothing and then he nodded.

"Not bad. Three minutes to break the glass, then another two to cut it. I am impressed, Miss Stirling. You'll do just fine on this job." The amusement in his expression only heightened when I sagged in place. "Don't be too hard on yourself. I've got more experience with murder than you have with being alive. You outsmarting me? It's just not going to happen. This will be much less painful for you if you stick to doing things my way, alright?"

It took everything I had not to break down in shame. He'd just been… what, toying with me? Testing me? Both? I felt humiliated yet again. This wasn't much different than things had been for me at home.

But then he stowed the pistol in his jacket and walked over to pat my head. Like I was a child, or maybe a dog. I instinctively moved to swat his arm away but it felt like hitting an iron bar. He was much, much stronger than I was, it seemed. After a couple more pats he withdrew and walked back across the room.

Now I could see all of it. There was another there which he walked over to and deliberately punched a keycode in that he didn't even bother to hide. Three-three-two-eight-four. Then he looked back and winked at me.

"Good night, Miss Stirling. We'll get started in the morning. Spare blankets are stored in the cupboard under the television. Feel free to watch something, but the volume is locked at a certain limit. Help yourself to anything in the mini-fridge. We'll get started in the morning."

Then he stepped through the door and it clicked behind him. I stared blankly at it for a while and then went to the small kitchen. There was, as he had said, small refrigerator there as well as a portable induction cooker and a pantry of basic essentials. I took a soda from the fridge and a dustpan from one of the cupboards. The former I left on the table while I brushed up the glass shards. I didn't empty it in the end, though.

The soda was the sweetest thing I'd had in weeks. I sat there and sipped it slowly whilst I idly browsed the channels on the television until I finally fell asleep.

 

[TotalAbsolutism]

When I woke up the glass shards were gone. 'Malcolm' must have cleaned it. He was in the room already; seated at the table with a plate of food from which he was eating with a quietness that disturbed me. His cutlery didn't scrape the plate at all while he quietly consumed what looked to be some sort of fried rice with mixed meat and vegetables.

The smell made my stomach rumble. I cautiously stood and walked over. Since there was no way to sneak up on him I didn't bother to try and be silent. Today he was dressed in plain, simple clothes with no visible brands that I could see. Surprisingly they weren't all black. More disguises, maybe? I wouldn't have looked twice at him on the street if it weren't for his pretty face so I supposed they were effective.

"Fixed you a plate too. Eat up; you didn't have nearly enough last night. Can't kill anyone if you're malnourished. Well, you can't anyway. Don't have the hunger for it." He nodded at another plate opposite him and I sat down to eat. My stomach would have overwhelmed my good sense even if I wasn't sure by now that he didn't intend to kill me. Yet.

"What do you mean by that?" When I finally spoke to him I had already finished half my plate and overtaken him. While I ate I'd spotted that he was wearing an underarm holster on his left side as well as a back holster on his right. Both were empty right now.

He didn't respond to my question for some time. The longer the silence stretched on the more I considered what I was doing. Even if a fork wasn't much of a weapon it was still what I had. Except the table wasn't small enough for my limited reach. I abandoned that thought and kept eating while I waited.

"People… don't just kill. In my experience. There's… preamble. A long dance, a build up of emotion. Nobody just wakes up one day and decides that they're going to stab someone to death." 'Malcolm' took another mouthful of rice and pointed his fork at me while he finished chewing. "You… don't have that. Which is interesting."

The tines of his utensil flashed as he flicked it side to side in illustration of his point. "You know why I took so long to find you, Miss Stirling? Rhetorical question, don't answer." I winced at his rapid rebuff and shut my mouth again. Smart-arse. "It was because I thought you were coming back. No signs, see? Took me a lot of digging to see even the shape of your situation and it was only there because of what wasn't there."

I had to admit that I was curious in spite of myself. He seemed to understand an awful lot about me that I didn't think anyone could have possibly pieced together. "Strong academic history. Very strong, one of the top in all your schools, but every student report praised your work ethic rather than your intellect. You don't pick things up quickly; you worked yourself to the bone for it, right?"

This time he let the words hang there expectantly until I nodded. He snorted, smirked, and then continued. "But what else? Extracurriculars. Quite a few. Ballet, piano, equestrianism and lacrosse? Again, praise for your diligence. But you're not first there, because some things can't be overcome by hard work alone."

My hand span made it difficult for me to perform the pieces that my mother dreamed of me doing, true. Nor did I have the ideal ballet dancer's physique. It was light, at least, but I didn't quite have that supple, graceful frame that the rest of the girls did. I made up the difference in absolute perfection in my routines. As for riding, my instructor often said they'd much prefer to train me as a jockey.

I did my best because my best was all I could do. Intense study had been the only path I had to some modicum of happiness. There had even been a time when I hadn't understood how the other children could possibly fail to do their homework. It made me feel like I was a genius, once. Until I'd learned better.

"So. Lots of effort, which means lots of stress. Yet… no visits to the school counsellor. Not a single appointment with a private psychiatric professional either. Nor was there any evidence of misbehaviour in class. By all accounts…. The perfect child." His immediate scoff made it clear just how much credence he gave that theory.

"Do you have a point, or are you just going to spend all day telling me my own life story instead of training me to kill my mother?" I interjected but was met with only a short, wry chuckle and a slow shake of his head.

"Oh dear. Such a misconception. No, that's not what we're going to do." He put down his fork and knife on the plate then pushed it towards me. "What you're going to do now is wash these dishes while I tell you the plan." One hand pointed me over to the sink which I hadn't noticed due to the fugue I'd fallen into last night.

With no small amount of grumbling I took his plate and mine, now empty, over there. Let's see… I needed to run hot water, then add some of that soap in that bottle, right? Then just, uh, scrub it with that brush? It took a couple of tries for me to get the water temperature right, much to the amusement of my captor, and I focused on the burning sensation as I finally got to scraping the plates clean.

"You really are sheltered, aren't you? My word. In any event; I won't be teaching you how to kill your mother. That's up to you. If I taught you then it would look too professional to be a crime of passion." His logic was something I could follow, at least. Though it did raise the question as to just why he thought this would take a week. "No, what I'm going to train you to do is investigate, and clean up."

I put the plates in the rack to the side of the sink and then emptied out the water so I could find where the cutlery had gone. It too went in the rack and I was left to lean against the bench and focus on 'Malcolm'. Since my hunger pains had ceased I gripped my thumb and slowly began to twist and squeeze while I listened to him. If he noticed what I was doing he didn't say anything.

"When I went to your family's penthouse I noticed cameras in every room. There was no sign of the monitors in the main security hub, so it was lucky that I decided to stage a power cut and steal a cleaner's uniform anyway. Did you know that they're on a separate backup power system that's self-contained inside the penthouse?" I shook my head. The cameras had always been part of my life. Two in each hallway, one in the kitchen, four in the living room, three in the library, three on each balcony and I'd never gotten an exact count on the ones spread throughout the roof garden.

"Hm. Well, they are. You'll need to find where they record to, gain access and put some video evidence of your mother's abuse where it can be easily found after you kill her and 'die' yourself." The sarcasm was as obvious as the actual air-quotes he performed along with the word. I hadn't realised people older than thirteen still did that.

"It's stored on father's computer, in his home office. I don't know his password, though. Mother probably does." I knew because he'd shown me once. Unintentionally. I'd been having trouble sleeping and he'd been up late. When I wandered to the kitchen for some water he'd taken me to his room and shown me a video of the sunset from the rear balcony, then sang me a lullaby until I fell asleep.

… I'd almost forgotten about that. Pleasant memories seemed so few and far between.

"Then we've got a head start. Get the video evidence, make a few audio recordings, practice your suicide note... simple. You off your old lady, signal me, we clean up the video, fake your death, and that's that. Home free to twenty million. No added… complexity." His tone had a number of layers to it that I didn't feel up to unpacking. I was already adding extra steps to his 'simple' little plan.

"... you never answered me, earlier. When I asked if you had a point. You just went to the second question." Even as I finished asking I wasn't quite sure why I had. It wasn't as if his assessment meant anything to me. Still… I'd asked, and now I squeezed my thumb tighter as I awaited his response.

"Over the counter melatonin pills to encourage sleep. The only medication you had in your room." I went still. He'd been in our apartment, so of course he'd been to my room. "Massive stressors in your life, but no sign of any stress disorders. Very little sign of recreation, too. The few things you had genuine talent for? Art, creating writing, athletics? Your time spent on those activities decreased with age."

Of course they had. I'd needed all the time I could get to succeed at the things mother had approved of. "Incredible stress, with no outlets. Annual school physicals show no indication of self-harming behaviours, either. I understand why now that I see you in action, of course." Almost immediately I relaxed my hands and put them behind my back, but I could tell that had been the wrong response.

"So what? You knew I was a murderer in the making because I was… too good? That's ridiculous." He sighed and raised one hand to his cheek. I looked away so that I wasn't caught up in his hypnotic tapping again just as he started it.

"No. It was because you were a teenager under immense pressure without any vices, any bad habits, or any misbehaviour. To my mind, a human can only operate like that if they are, or have, in some way… broken. At a fundamental level. As soon as I had that thought it all made sense. Why you'd vanished when your father died. Why your mother wasn't looking for you. Why there wasn't anything for me to find."

It was odd… his tone seemed to be full of sadness, but he wasn't looking at me with pity. I knew pity. This… this made no sense to me at all. "When I say you don't have the hunger, I mean that you lack the passion and desperation needed to kill a man over a slice of bread. Instead, what you have is a psyche broken enough to simply insert murder into your list of potential solutions to a problem."

He let out a long, slow breath and ran his fingers through his dark hair. "No forewarning. No preamble. Because you keep it all inside your head and hurt yourself to make it stay there. I have no idea what the inside of your mind looks like, Miss Stirling… save that I suspect it is very similar to mine."

'Malcolm' picked something off the counter and dropped it on to the table. A pad of grid paper with a mechanical pencil and a ruler taped to the front cover. "Make a rough floor plan of your apartment and mark where you remember cameras. We'll compare notes in an hour."

Then he punched his code into the keypad again and went through the middle door; leaving me alone.

 

[TotalAbsolutism]

When I finished the sketch I paused to look properly around the room. Last night I'd just grabbed a soda and not really looked around too much. But now… there didn't seem to be any cameras in this room but that was no guarantee of anything. Surely he wouldn't leave me unobserved? The thought of that bastard watching me made me feel slightly ill, however.

Then again… was he planning to bring me back here? No, he wouldn't have done it if he wasn't. That man was anything but incautious. Every time I thought I had one up on him he'd turned out to be four steps ahead. I discarded any thoughts of ambushing him, for now, and went back to filling in details on my map.

I could only imagine that it was exactly an hour later when the other door open and 'Malcolm' returned with a heavy toolbox, painted a dull olive green, in one hand. He laid this on the table and then slid across it to me. I stared at the item, a half-empty ten-pack of replacement utility knife blades, for longer than I meant to before managing to tear my gaze away from it and back to him.

"Why are you giving me this?" It felt like a pointless question. They made for terrible weapons but that hadn't been why I had them. This was the same package, of course; I could tell by the way the label was faded and ripped. I'd shoplifted it on my way home a good six, seven years ago now? Snapping off the individual blades had… helped make it last longer.

"I need you in your most stable emotional state for your training, and this is one of your crutches. So, you get it back." I glared at him, not believing this straightforward explanation for a moment, and he smirked. Instead of answering he opened up the toolbox and started to pull things out of it with one hand as he pawed through my sketches with the other.

"What's this?" He placed a set of locks on the table, one at a time, while tapping at something on the map. I glanced away from his box to see that he'd pointed out a small shaded square in my father's office.

"Gun safe, built into father's desk. I don't know what he kept in there." 'Malcolm' made a disinterested sound as he turned the grid paper around a few times and then reached into his box to pull out a small poster tube from which he extracted and unrolled some page-sized pieces of semitransparent paper. They had meticulous drawings on them that put mine to shame as he began to compare what was clearly a set of plans of my home with my drawings.

"If you had those, why did you make me draw some up?" .More locks came out and were laid out. Not padlocks, but lock cylinders that seemed to have been removed from a doorway. I frowned at them as he continued to unpack them rather than answering my question.

"There's some differences. Also, some things that weren't noted on the actual plans. Like the gun safe. Do you know where he kept the key?" I shook my head. Although I knew that father kept a firearm in there I'd never seen it. "Hmm. If you did, would you use it?" I felt my expression stiffen as I tried to think of how to answer.

He looked up from the plans and met my eyes with a faint smirk. "No. You wouldn't, would you? It isn't as easy as people think it is. Shooting someone. But that's not the problem you'd have with the gun, is it?" The infuriating man held his stare until my discomfort had almost reached its zenith, and then one of the lock cylinders was suddenly slid across the table to me.

"What are these?" I picked it up and glowered at it as I turned it this way and that; secretly relieved for the change in subject. It just looked like a lock to me, though obviously I had no idea what it was from. 'Malcolm' snorted.

"Locks. Tell me, do you know what a skeleton key is?" Now it was my turn to scoff. Did he think I was an idiot?

"No such thing. Not really. You can file down some keys and they'll open multiple locks, but the popular idea is a key that can open any lock, and that's just not possible." He didn't seem bothered by my frustrated and condescending tone. Rather, he smiled and nodded as if I'd just given the right answer for the class.

"Right you are, girl. But there are some modern equivalents. Bump keys, for example, can be used to bypass a wide variety of tumbler locks. Or a pick gun, if you're fancy." 'Malcolm' rolled his eyes with an airy laugh. "Child's play, compared to what I work with. Now, your home has a mixture of digital and analog locks."

I nodded. That much I knew; all of the security guards had cards on their belts that could open some, but not all, of the doors. But my parents' bedroom as well as my own, my father's office, and any of the storage closets had key locks. I'd only ever had the key to my own door, but I knew mother and father had keys for everything.

'Malcolm' continued, "The digital locks are your problem to solve. However, the rest? That's what these are for." He picked out a few more cylinders and slid them over to me. "Those are the same models as the ones I saw… and these are the rest of that product line." Another half-dozen cylinders were added to the growing collection. "I suspect that any locks I didn't find during my brief time there will be of the same kind."

"So, what? You're going to teach me to pick locks?" He laughed again, and I could feel my frustration growing. It was hard to stay calm in the face of his smugness, even if I knew my life was in his hands.

"No, no, no. I'll be teaching you how to use my skeleton key." I rolled my eyes. He did think I was an idiot. There was probably a viable bump key for the locks that my father had installed, or something. But then he pulled out a very strange looking key from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table.

It looked rather like a modern car key, but with six perfectly triangular teeth on either side. There was one button on either face of the head, close to the shoulder, and then two more on each side of the head plus one on the top. Still smirking, 'Malcolm' grabbed one of the locks, seemingly at random, and slid the key into it. Within a few seconds of pressing buttons he was able to turn the cylinder in its housing.

"Ta-dah. This is one of the three things you need to get down before I send you in." He pressed the button on the back and then slid the key out. It looked just as it had; totally unremarkable.

"What are the other two?" There was no answer. He packed away the excess locks into the box, then scooped half of them up in one hand and pocketed them.

"Practise with those.for now. I'm going to put these into some proper housings for you so you can't see the pins." After that he went to leave the room again. I turned and stared blankly at him, then called out right as he reached the keypad.

"That's it? No instructions?" 'Malcolm' paused and glanced over his shoulder at me, then shook his head.

"Play with it for a bit. Get a feel for it. Find what feels natural. Then I'll tell you how it works." Then, just like that, he was gone and I was alone with a pile of locks and his… ugh… 'skeleton key'. Seriously?

I picked up the stupid thing and tried pressing some of the buttons. Which, to its credit, did do things. Stupid things. I could extend the shaft and retract it, as well as cause it to widen. That happened by it splitting down the middle and one side or the other raising up according to how I pressed the buttons. But it didn't make any sense. This daft device had no chance of actually picking anything but the most basic of locks.

Yet, I had seen him do it. Unless there was a trick and he was just messing with me. I wasn't willing to rule that out yet. It's entirely possible that at the end of the week he'd just hand me a set of keys with a smug grin and berate me for ever believing him. However, I was still going to at least try and make this work on the one he'd opened; if only to slightly reduce my chances of being ridiculed later.

Even as I slid the 'key' in and began to futz around with the buttons I found myself already questioning this choice. Why was I even bothering? I was up against a master assassin who very clearly planned to kill me.

The answer still came easily, though. I was unwilling to just give up and die. Especially when I was still being underestimated. Being upset about that was incredibly petty, I understood that, but it wasn't something I was used to. Quite the opposite, in fact. Part of me thought that I ought to be relieved but I wasn't at all; instead, I was spurred to action by the stoked fires of my own indignation.

Besides which, I'd finally received some confirmation that 'Malcolm' wasn't quite as clever as he thought he was. Or, perhaps, that he was exactly as clever as he believed; which meant he didn't realise, at times, that other people were not. Because in our little chat I had managed to slip a few things past him.

He had been right, of course. About my father's gun. I had no intention of shooting my mother. That… that would be far too cold. Too quick. Too… impersonal. But that didn't mean I had no intention of acquiring that weapon. Especially because one of his little assumptions had allowed me to slip a small untruth past him.

I didn't know where my father kept his keys. But I did know what numbers he used in his combination lock.

 

[TotalAbsolutism]

The stupid fucking 'skeleton key' was a trick. It had to be. He, 'Malcolm', was screwing with me somehow. There was absolutely no way a thing like that should work, anyone could see it, and none of my testing was able to get it to do anything but open the most basic of his stupid practice locks. The ones so simple I was pretty sure I could have actually picked them with any of the utensils in the drawer.

He'd come back with the re-housed cylinders, dumped them on the table, and then just left again. My frustration must have been obvious but he hadn't said anything. The only thing of note was that he took one of the cans of soda from the fridge on his way out; but, again, I had no way of knowing what was him leaving trails to gauge my reaction.

So, infuriated, I kept working. Every minute I spent sawing away at the locks was another minute I became convinced I was being messed with. Eventually I lost track of time completely. I only broke out of my reverie when I heard the door to his area open again and whipped my head around to see him stepping through. This time I could see into the other side and it looked…

Identical to this one. I don't know what I had expected. He saw me staring and just smirked as he approached and casually leaned over the table to look at my progress.

"Not even one open? How… Surprising." Something was off about his tone. Given how he'd acted so far I'd anticipated more mockery, but instead it seemed to have genuinely caught him off guard and he gave me a strange look like he was reassessing something. "Well, good to know. Get changed." Then he dumped a wrapped bundle on the table. "We're going out."

And as I tried to sputter out questions he turned around to leave without answering even one.

Inside the bundle was a new set of clothing that, unsurprisingly, fit me well. Not perfectly, that would have been too creepy; he'd clearly gotten this all off-the-rack and had gone for a generic stretchy sports bra that was 'close enough' rather than even try to guess my cup size. That was… Honestly, it was actually pretty reassuring. If nothing else I didn't have to worry so much about that kind of treatment. The rest, though…

I didn't immediately recognise any of the brands but I did recognise the language the tags were written in and that immediately raised some questions alongside a bunch of red flags. This wasn't our, my, mother tongue. It was the language of the nation across the lake. We weren't on bad terms with them, as such, but there were always old tensions and grudges and you heard a lot about that when you lived on the border.

No wonder he wasn't worried about me escaping… I was technically in a totally different country.

It wasn't until I was finished, zipping up the overly-large hoodie with an unrecognisable mascot character on the front, that I realised the skeleton key was gone. I tried looking for it but was interrupted by the door opening and 'Malcolm' stepping out. He was dressed much more nicely than I was, almost conspicuously so, and was even adjusting a fancy silver watch as he walked in.

"Our story is that you're my daughter. Step-daughter, mind, so you can just call me Malcolm in front of them. No need to push your acting skills." The mockery was back. I hadn't missed it, but all I could do was glower at him. "Good, that's about right. Now, the people we're meeting won't believe that's true but they won't question it openly, which is all that matters." He reached up and fixed his tie, then pulled a set of glasses from inside his jacket and put them on. Not shades; black-rimmed spectacles that I could tell had at least a little bit of a prescription from how they subtly distorted his eyes.

"Should I bother asking why?" He looked at me and then raised a hand to start counting off on his fingers as he replied.

"Which why? Why won't they buy it? Why are we meeting them? Why am I taking you outside at all? You must be clearer with your requests, Miss Stirling, or we'll be here all day." Trying to antagonise him was a terrible idea, but I really, truly couldn't help myself.

"All three. Plus, 'why should I go along with it'. Because if you're taking me out I see no reason not to just run, or rat you out, or grab the first cop I see and scream for help." He didn't even seem annoyed. Just amused. His wrist flicked and a set of car keys dropped into his hands from… Somewhere. Then he went over and opened the door out.

"To the car, Miss Stirling. I'll answer your questions on the way." He gestured for me to go first and I reluctantly did so; shoving my hands as deep into my hoodie pocket as I could and squeezing the fork I'd 'hidden' in there. There was no way he didn't know I'd taken it, had anticipated it somehow, but I still did it. The cool metal against my palm was comforting. It felt like the tiniest touch of security.

The car he took us to wasn't the minivan I'd arrived in. That wasn't a shock, but what was surprising was how nice it was. He opened the passenger side door for me and then once I was seated went around and started it up. The whole time I was debating with myself whether to run, or maybe try to stab him in the neck as he shifted gears. But I didn't. He didn't even look at me; focusing instead on pulling out of the warehouse and heading towards the exit to the parking lot.

"The people we are meeting with are, in a word, monsters. They are abominable scum who feed upon the lost and unfortunate in society. That is why we must do business with them; because, for our plan to work, we need a body that looks very similar to you." Two feelings rushed through my body at once. The first, more traitorous of the two, was hope. A flash of heat at the mere thought I might live through this ordeal.

But the second was horror as I realised just what he was implying. I don't know whether he sensed it or not, but he continued. "The good news is that they won't be killing anyone for us specifically. Let me be clear, Miss Stirling. The young lady who will replace you is already dead. I do not mean that in the sense of inevitability. I quite literally mean she is already in a freezer somewhere, waiting to be used for purposes far crueller than the one we will put her corpse to." The rumble of the car quieted as he slowed to a stop at the first set of lights.

Then he did look over at me. His expression was… Strangely sympathetic. "I tell you this because I do not want you to feel responsible for her death. Whoever she is, you could not have saved her. Do you understand?" I nodded, slowly, and only then did he look away and start driving again.

"I have told them what we want the body for. That is why you must come. Someone will examine you. It may not be a woman. It should be no more invasive than a simple fitting; they should not need to lay a finger on you to take your measurements. If they do then inform me." He didn't say why, or what he'd do, and she wasn't especially reassured. Thanks to her mother there had been… A lot of fittings. None of them had been what she'd call 'uninvasive'.

Rather than focus fully on his speech she tried to look around. It was dark out. There were street lights and signs, but they were in a language she recognised words of but couldn't quite parse. Their classes hadn't been extensive and it was one subject her mother hadn't cared enough about to ride her on. Aside from that, though, it looked much like home. So much so she wondered if maybe they hadn't even crossed the lake.

That lasted until he took a particular turn onto an elevated highway and she could see, across the water, a very different skyline to the one she was used to seeing. With one particular building she could recognise even from here. The logo on the side was unmistakable. Her father's business.

Malcolm really had smuggled her to another country. As if blind to her reeling thoughts he continued with his answers once they were cruising again. "They won't buy my excuse because I've laid hints implying otherwise. What they believe to be the case is that I am a scumbag that has tricked an underage girl into eloping with him and wants to fake her death so her parents can't find her." He snorted derisively. "That's something they'll accept; both because 'figuring it out' makes them feel clever, and because it's the kind of shit they do. It's an answer that makes sense to them. They won't question it."

For all that he was employing these people he seemed to have a low opinion of them. Light flashed in their rear and her heart froze for a moment, but Malcolm calmly shifted to the side and watched the police vehicle, painted in entirely the wrong colours, speed past them and into the distance. "That should cover the first three. As for the last? Your little run-on question?" He chuckled. It wasn't a friendly sound. "Because you're not that stupid, Miss Stirling. You've figured out where we are, and you've already talked yourself out of doing anything dumb."

They turned off the highway and took a sharp curve; sharper as some guy tried to cut them off and Malcolm laser-focused on his license plate for just a moment before he continued. "Oh, don't get me wrong; I don't expect you to trust me, and I am fully anticipating some ill-advised scheme or treachery on your part before all of this is over. But you're smart enough to know now isn't the time. Frankly, I'll be shocked if you do it while your mother is still breathing." They slowed, and took one last turn off the road and into a parking lot.

He came to a stop in front of a large neon sign-adorned facade that, even though she couldn't read it outright, proclaimed the dubiousness of the place they'd come to. She went for the door, but the handle didn't work and when she looked back over at him he was staring at her with that same murderous intensity she'd seen over the kitchen island the other day.

"Two final things, Miss Stirling. Firstly, know that if I have misread you and you do attempt anything foolish in there all you will have succeeded at is killing every person, innocent or otherwise, in this establishment." He said it so calmly, so matter-of-fact, that her blood ran cold. Until now his tone, despite what he'd been saying, had been so genial she'd almost forgotten for a moment. Forgotten who she was dealing with. What she was dealing with.

"And lastly… If at any point in there I call you 'petal' then you should close your eyes at once." His expression cracked. Something like a smile bloomed on his face; he sounded almost… Eager. Anticipatory. "Because that will mean I am about to kill someone."