Page 6 of Made in Malice

“No need, everything you require will be provided.”

“You had me, but that made it creepy, Virgil. You expect me not to even pack my clothes and toiletries?”

“Pardon me, I just mean that once you’re home, you will have access to resources to acquire anything you might need or want.”

“Sounds sketchy, and I don’t like owing people. I’ll bring my own things,” I counter. There is no way I’m getting stranded in South Carolina without clothes, even with five grand in cash. If this doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll like the area. It doesn’t get nearly as cold down there as it does in Michigan.

“I’ll have some luggage delivered with your other things. Is there anything else you need, like a car to take you to the airport?”

“No, I’ll arrange that.” I refuse the offer, still too leery. I’m not special enough for someone to concoct this elaborate of a plan, but I still can’t accept his offer.

“I’ll speak with you soon, Miss Devlin. Call me if you need assistance making arrangements.” Virgil hangs up the phone, leaving me wondering what the heck I just agreed to and how crazy I am.

By the time the afternoon rolls around, I’ve convinced myself I imagined the entire conversation with the lawyer two nights ago and upturned my life for no reason. If it weren’t for the cash tucked into the fanny pack I picked up at Target yesterday, along with other wasted money purchases, like a new toothbrush and other travel crap, I would think I imagined the entire thing.

I spent a little time on my phone, looking up Astrid and Rory Devlin, but I found zilch on either of them, which really makes me think I’m insane for believing any of this.

Kirby was pretty shocked when I called to let him know I’d worked my last shift at Bobcat’s. He pleaded for me to reconsider for all of two seconds, then he was a jerk for me quitting without notice, which I understand. The worst part is, I might have quit a decent paying gig for nothing.

I haven’t heard from Virgil at all. There have been no deliveries of luggage, plane tickets, or itineraries to speak of. Maybe he’s just some guy who gets off on ruining people’s lives, but then why would he give me so much money? My thoughts circle again.

Just when I’m about to get my rump off the couch and put my meager stacks of clothes back in my closet, there’s a hard knock at the door. I rush over, but I don’t unlock it right away. “Who is it?”

“Delivery, I need a signature.”

I check the peephole to see a man in a dark jacket standing in front of the door, and nerves fill my stomach. Maybe I was hoping it was a lie. That would have been easier to cope with.

“Okay,” I reply and unlock the door. My eyes scan the bag in his hand. It’s from a designer store. This guy is lucky he didn’t get robbed, but then I take a long look at him and change my mind. He’s a big man, with a neck like a tree trunk and hands that look like meaty hammers.

He lifts an arm, extending a handheld electronic that looks like a phone in a bulky case. “Nova Devlin, you need to sign before I can bring the rest up.”

I look at the phone, only seeing an X and a line next to it.

“Your finger will do.” He nods to get me moving. I scribble my signature on the line, then hand it back, prompting him to turn over the heavy paper bag with the designer label on the side.

“I’ll be back with the rest,” he says, slipping the device into a pocket. When he leaves, I notice the door across the hall is cracked, and Junior’s mom is eyeing me with a look of disdain. She doesn’t try to hide her dislike for me or her snooping.

“What you be doing to get a delivery like that?”

“Nothing you’re implying,” I mutter under my breath. I usually try to play nice, since I don’t like to get into trouble with people who know where I live, but the last few days have either made me brave or stupid. Probably stupid.

She clicks her tongue at me but still doesn’t close her door. If we were neighborly, I might tell her I’m leaving for a little while, but I’m afraid she would use the info against me in some way, so I keep my mouth shut as the man returns, climbing the stairs with a box so large, I can’t even see his head anymore, just his beefy arms wrapped around the thing.

I immediately back into my apartment, thinking I don’t want him to set it down in the hall in case it’s too heavy for me to move. “One more trip,” he tells me after placing the box down on my threadbare carpet.

“Okay,” I agree slowly. This time, I wait just inside the door and only open it when I hear him coming up the stairs. He has two boxes this time, stacked on top of each other, making it nearly as large as the last load. He huffs and stands back to look around my apartment. I don’t bother examining him for his reaction. I know it’s a dump, so there’s no point in pretending it’s not.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. Do I tip him? Once the idea strikes, I dash over to my bag and rifle through my tip money to pull out a ten, then I reconsider and go for the twenty. It’s more than I would have ever given up before, but I didn’t have extra then.

“Thank you for hauling all this up here.” I extend my hand, feeling weird, even though I make a living on tips.

“You’re welcome.” He tilts his head as if I surprised him, then he lifts his hand in a stop gesture, halting me from giving him the money. “That’s been taken care of. Do you need a hand packing, or should I wait outside until you’re ready to go?” He clasps his hands in front of his body as if he’s standing at the ready.

“Help me pack?” I question, confused.

“Your flight leaves in three hours. You should take a look at the file.” He nods his dark head toward the bag I set on the counter.

“File?” I sound like an idiot with all these echoed half questions.

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