Page 124 of Lotus

Oh, fuck no.“A kid? Absolutely not. I’m out.”

“I have a plan.”

“Fuck you, fuck your plan, fuck your smarmy fuckin’ face.Leave.”

“One-hundred.”

The number steals the rebuttal from my lips, and I hesitate. I fuckinghesitateover taking out a little kid. My hits have always been clean and fairly guilt-free—drug dealers, shady corporate assholes, cheating scumbags. I’m able to separate business from morals, compartmentalizing my work from my conscience.

But this is a different level of monster.

That number, though.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It would change my life.

I could start over, get the hell out of this shithole, meet someone, create a new family.

One kid.

One. Kid.

Goddammit, I’m going straight to Hell. My voice cracking, eyes on the floor, I croak out through a puff of thick smoke, “Details.”

July 4, 1998

Fireworks begin to paint the sky as I arrive at the designated location. It’s a neighborhood playground, bustling with a few children and parents as they watch the display from the bottom of a tall hill.

Perched in the driver’s seat of my Dodge Intrepid, I glance at the photograph between my fingers, a line of sweat casing my brow. I’m fucking nervous and it’s really goddamn irritating. I’mnevernervous when I’m about to do a job.

But this is different.

This is the kind of job that changes everything. There’s no coming back from this.

I study the Polaroid in my unsteady hand, fingernails dirty from working in the crops today. I’ve decided that’s where I’ll get rid of the body. My property is secluded, and the hole I dug is nearly five-hundred yards into the crop field. I have no connection to this kid, so I’m feeling confident he’ll stay missing for a good long time.

Oliver Lynch. He’s a cute little guy—reminds me of my boy, Tommy, with the shaggy brown hair and bangs that nearly cover his smiling eyes, a spattering of freckles along the bridge of his nose, and two perfectly placed dimples. There’s a young girl in the picture, happy and pig-tailed, and they lick their respective popsicles on a set of swings.

Tommy loved purple popsicles.

A rattled sigh leaves me in a long breath, and I tuck the photograph into my shirt pocket. I have a clear image of the boy, along with a description of what he’ll be wearing tonight: a red and white plaid button-down with denim overalls andNinja Turtlelight-up sneakers. I was told he’d likely be attached to the hip of the girl from the photograph. And when I peek through the slow-dancing leaves of a giant Sycamore tree, that’s exactly what I find—Oliver lying beside the little blonde girl, shoulder to shoulder, at the top of the grassy hill. I’m a good distance away, but they look alone up there, staring at the explosions as a backpack rests beside them.

A sharp crack has me jumping in my seat, and I internally slap myself for acting like a pussy. I’ve done dozens of jobs, and this is akid. Kids are trusting. Kids don’t put up a fight.

It’ll be a piece of cake.

Pulling myself together, I hop out of the car and close the door, assessing my surroundings to make sure there are no potential witnesses. I’m parked along a dead end cul-de-sac that backs up to the lake, and the hill looms overhead, two small voices barely penetrating the fireworks. Leaves and stones crunch beneath my boots as I try to get a better look through the trees.

“… for the man who grants our wishes. He lives in the sky.”

It’s all I can make out before another boom strikes, sheathing the treetops in a violet glow. The little girl starts rummaging through her backpack, pulling out art supplies, when I notice Wellington approach the two children from the left, his voice shrill over the firework display.

“Sydney, your parents want you home now,” he hollers over to them, and I can’t make out what they’re doing when the wind steals the leaves again, hindering my view.

I pace along the side of the gravel road, inching towards the end of the tree line.

“One second, almost done!” a sweet voice responds. “Okay, coming. Bye, Oliver!”

---