Page 71 of Bad Intentions

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“No worries. You didn’t grow up in a golden cage. Just a shitty cage called Burnville. Where would you learn?”

We’ve been talking for some time when the door to the kitchen opens, and Mrs. Snickett walks in. She drops my keys on the kitchen table and takes off her coat.

“What now?” I ask.

“What now?” she echoes without looking at me and lights a cigarette. “I need a drink.”

“I mean, the car.”

“Oh, your car is out back, where you left it.”

“But…”

She glances at me before picking up a tumbler from the counter and taking a greedy gulp. “It’s all good,” she says with a satisfied humming in her chest, then takes another gulp. “You had a good night at the bar. Brought Rika here. Thank you for that. And you can stay here tonight if you want.”

“I can’t. I need to check on Grandma.”

My phone pings somewhere in the living room. Rika brings it and hands it to me.

Unknown: Naughty, naughty. What did you do with the body?

I instantly panic and show the message to Mrs. Snickett. Calmly, she takes another gulp from her tumbler, sucks her teeth, then takes a drag of her cigarette, all of this done slowly, like she’s reading a cozy novel. “Sometime tomorrow, I’m gon’ take you to a friend.”

“What sort of friend?” I ask.

“Need to track that number. Don’t worry. It won’t be official.”

She gives me more instructions. When I’m ready to leave, she walks me to my car.

When I get in the driver’s seat, she gets in the passenger’s.

“What are you doing?” I ask her.

“Making sure you get home safe.”

“You don’t⁠—”

“Drive, kiddo. Just drive.”

I do. Grandma’s house is only a few streets away, and the entire ride, I wonder where the body is.

“You can drive my car back,” I say to Mrs. Snickett as we both get out of the car under my grandma’s carport.

“I’m good,” Mrs. Snickett rasps. “I’ll walk.”

“What if someone is watching?”

Slowly, she sticks a cigarette between her lips. “Let ’em watch,” she says, the cigarette bouncing as she talks. “They watch too closely, they get a bullet between their eyes.” She lights the cigarette. “Good night.” She doesn’t move, though. “Off you go,” she says, and I realize that she wants to make sure I get in the house safely. I wouldn’t be surprised if she carries a gun.

Inside the house, I lock all the doors like Mrs. Snickett instructed and watch through the window as her silhouette disappears into the night, the scent of her cigarette smoke still lingering in my hair.

I wait for fifteen minutes, then pick up the landline receiver and dial her house number, which I’ve written on my palm. When she picks up the house phone, I ask, “Home?”

She answers, “Good night,” and hangs up.

I stand, holding my breath, hoping that Grandma didn’t wake up. The house is quiet. It’s peaceful, except I know that someone is watching me. And that someone is an evil mystery.