Page 1 of Made in Malice

“Nova Devlin?” the spiffy man standing in the hall of my apartment asks with an air of suspicion when I open my door.

Yeah, I’m feeling the same. “Who are you?” I’m not answering his question. I have enough sense not to tell this man who I am. He’s probably from a collection agency looking to sue me for medical bills or some crap. The Gucci loafers are a nice touch, probably fakes, but I bet he regrets coming into my building. The carpet is sticky in some spots, but we’re not going to talk about that.

“My name is Virgil Haynsworth. This is 32059 Cheboygan, Apartment D, is it not?” I wonder if he got his rump kicked when he was a kid with a name like that. I take a good look at his empty hands, which are hanging loosely by his sides, his lean body, and clean-shaven jaw, and contemplate what the heck he’s doing around here. I stick my head farther out the door to see if there’s someone else waiting out of sight to serve me with paperwork or something, but the hall appears to be empty.

“That’s what it says on the door,” I finally respond.

“Then you must be Nova Devlin. I have a pressing matter I need to discuss with you.”

“If this is one of those extended warranty things, I don’t even have a car,” I retort, ready to close the door.

“Miss Devlin.” He peers down his nose at me, giving me assistant principal vibes. “It is very important that I speak with you.”

“Okay.” I keep my grip on the door, ready to slam the thing in his face if he tries anything. I regret even answering it at this point, but I thought it was Junior from across the hall again, and I was ready to give him an earful for banging on my door and running away all the dang time.

“We should really speak privately.”

I snort. It’s not ladylike, but I’d rather be rude than dead any sooner than I already will be. “If you think I’m letting you in here, you’re wrong. Plus, my boyfriend is sleeping, and he gets really cranky if he gets woken up.” I don’t have a boyfriend, and I certainly wouldn’t have a cranky one.

He moves his hand, reaching into his inside jacket pocket, and I slam the door in his face and flip the deadbolt before he can pull out whatever he’s grasping.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, Miss Devlin, my apologies.” I can hear him clearly since the walls in this place are paper-thin.

“Sure, I’m not dumb enough to open the door again, mister. If you have something to tell me, say it now or get the heck out of here.”

A small white card slides under the door, and I hop back before realizing what it is. It looks safe enough, but I’ve read stories on Reddit about girls being drugged just from touching something they think is harmless.

“I don’t feel comfortable talking in the hall, Miss Devlin. I assure you this is to your benefit. Please call the number on the card. If you’re not willing to arrange a meeting, we might discuss matters over the phone,” he offers.

“What’s this about?” I have to admit that his tenacity definitely has my interest piqued.

“Your family,” he answers just loud enough for me to hear him through the door, but anyone else eavesdropping in on our conversation would have a hard time picking up his reply.

“They are dead. I can’t pay their bills. Do you think if I had that kind of money, I’d be living here in this crap hole?” Damn hospitals, they are worse than leeches. They take everything from you, then squeeze you for blood after. I knew he was a bill collector. What a waste of time and money to send him here.

“I’m here at the behest of your grandparents, but I’m afraid I cannot say any more under these conditions. Call the number on the card.”

“My grandparents?” I whisper past the whooshing sound in my ears. I don’t have any family. Mom told me she and dad were both orphans, and that was how they bonded and fell in love, so what the heck is he talking about?

With shaking fingers, I jerk the door open to accuse him of lying, but the hall is empty. I shut and lock the door again while examining the card at my feet. There’s fancy silver lettering shimmering up at me, but I’m still too apprehensive to reach down and grab it.

I pull it away from the door with the toe of my sock-covered foot, worried a draft will suck it back under the slot and it will be gone forever, and then I head into the kitchen. I don’t want to use my gloves to pick it up, but I do have some dollar store sandwich bags I can put over my fingers.

I know I must look like a crazy person, and I feel like a crazy person, but it’s better to be crazy than dead or worse.

I still don’t bring the thing close to my face when I pick it up to read it.

Virgil Haynsworth

Attorney at Law

Charleston, South Carolina

843-555-0000

When I flip the card over, there’s a hand scrawled phone number on the back in black ink. “What the heck is he doing all the way up here from South Carolina?” I flip the card over again, knowing I didn’t miss anything, but my curiosity is piqued, and who says things like behest? I roll my eyes. It must be some sort of scam anyway. I don’t have grandparents.

I toss the card into the soil of one of the dying plants stationed near the door. I can’t bring myself to throw it in the trash yet, and I’m not setting it on the counter or the table. I’ll get rid of the card next time I remember to water my mom’s flowers.

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