Chương 4: Act 1, Chapter 4: Meetings

Day in the story: 11th September (Thursday) Lessons could have been great today. They always left me with something new, not just about the craft, but about myself. That was the quiet magic of art: even within the rigid walls of institutional learning, something raw and beautiful still managed to slip through. But I didn't linger. I had to leave in a hurry. Penrose had texted me: No word from Honey since we last spoke. That alone said more than it should have. It was bad.

She could've gone radio silent, maybe trying to dodge the fallout from my last job. Or worse: maybe she was dead. Two hundred thousand wasn't just the price of a necklace anymore, it might've become the price of a life. Her absence felt dangerous, especially for me. Because if Honey had disappeared, then questions would come next. Accusations and cleaning up loose ends. I knew how these things went. I'd played too many parts not to recognize the shape of a tragedy before it unfolded.

And so I was on a bus again, heading toward the city center. Despite all her secrecy, Miss Honey wasn't some shadow in the dark. She wasn't a thief. Not a spy. She was a businesswoman walking a thin, razor's edge path in a forest full of wolves, and that made her vulnerable. It also made her trackable. She didn't know I had found her home months ago. Neither did Penrose. But I had followed her trail after our first meeting. Just in fucking case. And today that caution might save my life.

I was wearing both the face and hair of Jess Hare, makeup hastily applied in the back of the bus, wig slipped on the moment I found shadow between two buildings. Miss Honey lived in one of those big apartment complexes with a concierge stationed at the front desk, the kind who thinks he's the gatekeeper of queens and kings.

"Good afternoon, sir," I said with a polite tone, warm but not overly familiar. He nodded back, professionally but not unfriendly.

"Good afternoon. How may I help you, ma'am?"

"I'm here because of Jason," I replied sweetly. Sorry, Jason, but yours was the first name that popped into my head for this little performance.

"Jason?" His brows knitted together.

"Jason who?"

"What do you mean, sir?" I blinked in mock confusion. The concierge frowned, part real bewilderment, part secondhand embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I don't know who you're talking about."

"Oh, Jason…" I sighed dramatically, leaning in slightly, like we were about to share a juicy secret.

"I don't remember his last name. He was a good-looking fella. Wore a suit. At first, at least, if you know what I mean." I made a gesture that was just on the edge of vulgar. He flinched, closing his eyes briefly, clearly disturbed. Bingo!

"He told me he'd call, but of course, he never did," I added, just loud enough for the discomfort to linger in the air.

"Though, to be fair, I was the one who followed him first." That hooked him. He leaned in, despite his best efforts to stay uninterested.

"Do you have his number, ma'am? Maybe it would be best to call him?" he asked, probably already knowing the answer.

"Unfortunately not. But when I followed him, I saw him meet another woman. Straight after he was done with me." I let the words hang for effect, then brought my fist down lightly but firmly on the desk. He flinched, but leaned back in.

"She seemed like such a nice lady. I thought they might be lovers. Or married. I just want to warn her that he's a scumbag." His expression shifted, guarded curiosity now tinged with reluctant sympathy.

"Do you know her name?"

"No, but I know what she looks like and that she lives here. African-American, dreads dyed blonde. Full lips, dimples in her cheeks. Fuller-bodied, real curves—you get the picture. That day she wore a sunny yellow suit, looked absolutely radiant. Like she lit up the sidewalk just by standing there." I watched his face carefully and when I spotted recognition, I struck quickly: "I know you can't let me in. I respect that. But maybe you could call her?

Tell her someone needs to speak with her, downstairs, just for a minute?"

"I don't know…" he murmured.

"If someone you loved lied to you—cheated on you, wouldn't you want to know? She seemed so lovely. She deserves to know the truth."

"Why didn't you confront them right then?" he asked, still clinging to protocol.

"I gave him the benefit of the doubt," I said, my voice softening.

"Maybe I hoped it was a misunderstanding. But then he ghosted me." He sighed heavily, reached for the phone and dialed a number marked 419— fourth floor, apartment nineteen, if my guess was right. After a few seconds, the line picked up. She was alive! G rea t fucking news for me.

"Hello, Mrs. Holden." Mrs., so she's married then. Let's hope I'm not about to wreck a happy home.

"There's a lady here who'd like to speak with you, if that's possible." There was a pause. She was speaking on the other end.

"Well… pretty face, red hair, nicely but plainly dressed." Oh, thank you for that last part, Mr. Concierge. Always lovely to be fashion-reviewed in real time.

"I'll ask, Mrs. Holden." He looked at me now, covering the receiver with his hand.

"She wants to know your name." I gave him a small, polite smile.

"Jess Hare."

She walked down the stairs, not the elevator. Smart—she wanted an easy escape route if things went sideways. I respected that. I'd have done the same. She wore an African traditional dress—vibrant yellows, deep reds and warm browns—it was striking, almost ceremonial and absolutely stunning on her. But her face didn't match the colorful armor she'd wrapped herself in. She looked tense, scared, angry and maybe even betrayed.

I was already seated on the corner lounge sofa near the entrance, a shadowy nook with no direct windows, which made it perfect. It was private and thus safer for both of us. She didn't even bother with pleasantries.

"How did you find me here, Ms. Hare?"

"I followed you here a while ago. Just in case." Her eyes narrowed.

"That's a breach of trust. I never expected Mr. Penrose to stoop that low."

"It was my own decision. He had nothing to do with it. In fact, he still doesn't know; not about this place, or this meeting." If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

"That might be true." She didn't sound convinced.

"Or it might not. Why are you here?"

"Isn't it obvious? You set me up, either for failure or death."

"I did no such thing, Ms. Hare." Her voice was sharper now.

"I gave you the information as it was given to me. Just like always."

"Was the client a first-timer? Or have I worked for him before?"

"I can't tell you that." Of course she couldn't. This was getting old fast.

"Mrs. Holden, Ms. Honey, whichever version you want to go by today, I'm a patient woman. But I won't let an attempt on my life slide. That clear?" She sank into the armchair across from me, weighing her words.

"First-timer," she said finally.

"Is that why you've been dodging calls?" Her expression cracked, fury bubbling just beneath the surface.

"What did you expect? This was supposed to be a clean job, he said that." A he n arrowed it down to about half the world, but it was a start.

"You said it too. And yet what did we get? A disaster. A shootout. Fire. FBI crawling around and that so-called exit plan? That went straight to hell too."

"I told you everything as instructed." Her voice had gone sharp and hushed, clipped syllables and trembling restraint.

"Have you spoken to the buyer since then?"

"No." She crossed her arms.

"He never called back. I found out about the mess through other means." I wondered what she meant by that.

"And you didn't call me? Or him? Why?" Her face darkened.

"Why?" Her voice cracked like a whip.

"That wasn't in the agreement. You were to bring me the necklace. I would contact the middleman. That was the deal. Why would I call anyone when you never showed up?"

"I get that. But then why ghost Penrose? You made it nearly impossible for me to follow through. I have the necklace, maybe not on me right now, but it's safe. I can still deliver it, same terms. But you are the one making it messy."

"I went dark because I found out who the buyer really is," she said, almost in a whisper.

"And once I did, I needed to disappear for a while. To ride it out. The whole thing turned rotten and, to be honest?" She leaned forward slightly, her eyes locking with mine.

"I was afraid of him and of you."

"Me?" I asked, though I already knew where this was going.

"Yes, you, Ms. Hare," she replied with cold certainty.

"I know you're capable of killing. So is Mr. Penrose." I'd never killed out of malice and I never went in planning to. But if things turned bad, really bad, I wasn't the type to roll over and die for someone else's mistake. Penrose, on the other hand could eviscerate a man, force-feed him his own intestines just to make a point, then return to his foie gras like nothing had happened. I'd seen it.

"You really thought I'd come here to take revenge?"

"Frankly? Yes. I still do. Why else would you show up at my home?" Her fingers were tight against the fabric of her dress now.

"You want to scare me, don't you? Force me to give you what I know? And don't sell me the story that Penrose doesn't know about this visit." It was the truth, but maybe I could use that line of thinking to shift the dynamic.

"I came to make sure you were alive," I said in a deliberately calm manner.

"We still want the trade. You're the one making it difficult."

"I had my reasons," she snapped, more defensive than defiant.

"And now," I said, slowly leaning forward, "you're going to set those reasons aside and organize the exchange like we agreed. Contact the buyer. I want this cursed necklace out of my hands." She hesitated. I saw the storm behind her eyes, fear and doubt and shame fighting for control. What a mess. The job had gone to hell and now she was just another variable making it worse, tangled in her own fear like a fly in webbing she spun herself. I had thought she was a professional.

"I'll call his man later," she said.

"When can you hand me the necklace?"

"Oh no, Ms. Honey," I said, folding my arms.

"We're making a few changes to the agreement. I don't trust you anymore."

"What?" Her reaction was immediate. She was offended and genuinely surprised, as if she couldn't believe I'd say it aloud. I stared at her. I would not let her play the victim now.

"You're going to call him now," I said.

"And you're going to organize a meeting for all three of us. Make it somewhere public. A restaurant. A shitty pub. Hell, we could do it right here in the lobby if you prefer. But no more intermediaries."

"I won't agree to that." Her tone dipped into alarm.

"That's bad for business. Bad for life."

"Then maybe next time you'll make better decisions," I said, evenly.

"You played this game and you forced my hand. Now make the call."

"I can't do it here," she protested, glancing toward the front desk. Still playing. Still hoping she could squirm her way out. I slipped the pistol from my bag just long enough for her to see it—no theatrics—no threat spoken. Then I let it disappear again.

"You will make that call," I said. She stared at me. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came. Then she nodded.

"Okay, Ms. Hare." She reached for her phone, hands suddenly more cooperative. It was funny how polite people become when they remember they're not the one holding the gun.

"Yes, Ms. Hare would like to make an exchange," she said when the man answered. I could hear his voice through the phone. He was calm. Too calm.

"She proposes—" she began, but I kicked her in the shin under the table.

"She demands," she corrected herself, eyes flashing at me, but she understood.

"That we meet directly. No intermediaries. Just the three of us."

"I see no problem with that," the man replied smoothly.

"Where?"

"The Sleeping Bear, on—""I know where it is," he cut her off.

"When?" She looked at me. I gave a nonchalant shrug.

"After nine," I said.

"Tonight." I had to attend Jason's party first, ridiculous as that sounds, even in my own head. There was a pause on the line.

"Nine?" he repeated.

"Can you make a reservation at such short notice?" It was a fair question. The Sleeping Bear wasn't a place someone just walked into. It took months to book a table, unless one knew someone. But she was the one who brought it up, so she'd made her bed.

"Yes," she said, firm now.

"Reservation for three. You, me and Ms. Hare."

"Fine. I'll be there. Good day, Ms. Honey."

"Good day," she replied and hung up.

"See?" I said, leaning back a little.

"That wasn't so hard." She sighed, looking older in that moment.

"You're too eager to celebrate, Ms. Hare. I think I made a terrible mistake getting involved with this man. With his boss."

"You might've," I said.

"We'll find out tonight." She stood halfway and hesitated.

"May I go now?"

"You can go, just make that reservation. One last thing." She froze again.

"In case you decide to disappear, which I strongly advise against… What does this man look like?" She sat back down.

"A young Asian man, always in a tailored suit. Black hair in a bun, goatee, small scar near his lip. And…" she hesitated, then added, "he's missing half his little finger." Yakuza. Of—fucking—course.

"Alright," I said.

"Go." She stood, composed again, and I followed her with my eyes until she stepped into the elevator. Then I walked over to the concierge.

"Thank you again for your help," I said. It cost nothing to be polite and usually bought more than a threat.

"She looked really distressed," he said, lowering his voice.

"It's good you told her about that man."

"Yes. Sometimes you have to cut off the rotting limb, even if your life won't ever be the same without it." He swallowed and nodded solemnly.

"I hope she makes the right choice."

"I hope I did too," I said and I left.

"It's not a good idea, Alexandra," Mr. Penrose said, handing me the necklace. His face was carved from stone, but his eyes flickered with something close to approval.

"Though I didn't expect Ms. Honey to turn so… sour. Good instincts, following her."

"Do you think she'll show up?" I asked, slipping the necklace into the hidden pouch under my jacket. It nestled in like it belonged there. It was starting to feel like it did.

"Before I knew she'd gone underground, I would've said yes. Now?" He shook his head.

"I don't trust her at all."

"Same," I muttered.

"Still going. I want this thing gone."

"She's afraid," he said.

"People like her usually are. You and I, we don't get that luxury, do we?"

"No. We don't."

"You need anything else?"

"Yes, actually." I leaned slightly on the edge of his desk.

"I'm out of the blue sleeping pills. Used the last one during my daring escape. Thought I had a stash at home, but…" I shrugged. He opened a drawer, pulled out a small container and handed it over.

"Twenty. Should last you for a while. Is that all?"

"Appreciated." I weighed the bottle in my hand then reached inside my coat again, this time pulling the gun I'd got from the wreck. I flicked the safety off and leveled it at his forehead.

"Give me all my money." He didn't flinch, didn't blink. Just looked at me as if I'd told him the weather was turning.

"Where did you find it?" he asked calmly and reached out. I handed it over with a smile.

"Guy who tried to kill me didn't need it anymore." He inspected it with a practiced hand then flipped the safety back on.

"Staccato 2011. Nine mil. Bad choice really. Clean recoil, lightweight, but easy to track. You keeping it?"

"I was going to buy one anyway. This saves me the trip." He handed it back.

"Practical. Anything else?"

"No, thank you, sir. That'd be all."