AGATHA

Monday, July 19 - 7:06 PM

It's annoying when someone you're supposed to meet is late. Extra annoying when that person is a pathological stickler for following her schedule, yet for some reason is late the one time it's you she has plans with.

I arrived and acquired us a secluded table twenty minutes early because I thought for sure Roxanne would be here on the dot and give me shit when I turn up even two seconds late. But I guess the fuck not.

Impatience prickling my skin, I glance around again for the umpteenth time to no avail. I've had to fend off three different servers in the half hour I spent looking like a sucker who's been stood-up on a date, glaring back in return to those who send pitiful glances my way. This party of one is none of anybody's business, thank you very much.

It's not like I'm wearing the cutest dress I packed with me. I'm sure I have an even nicer one hidden somewhere deep, deep within my luggage. Also, so what if I put on lipgloss even though I prefer matte lipsticks on the reg?

"This is getting ridiculous," I mumble against the rim of my wineglass and take a sip— a gulp— while I wait some more. I also slip my leather jacket back on to look less sad single lady and more nonchalant independent woman.

Besides, I know it makes me look more intimidating. Exhibit A: the fourth waiter who dares approach me— most likely to shove a menu under my nose and force me to order something because they'd have to kick me out for hogging a whole table otherwise— decides at the last minute to head back to the kitchen when I pin him down with a glare.

Ha! The leather-jacket-and-dagger-glare combo never fails.

I feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing to attention like it usually does when I'm being watched. The moment I turn to look back, my gaze meets Roxanne's curious one.

Fina-fucking-lly.

I beckon her over with a tilt of the head, and stay twisted in my seat to watch her strut closer.

Another thing that's annoying? The way Roxanne looks walking towards me right now. There's literally no reason for her hips to be swaying like that. And why is her button-up not buttoned up?

I huff out an irritated breath but hide it behind my fist. This Roxanne is innocent and has done nothing wrong—yet— and I need to remind myself of that.

"Took you long enough."

She smiles sheepishly at me, pulling the chair opposite of me and seating herself. She looks breathless too for some reason.

"Yeah, sorry. But something crazy just happened. Like, just right now—"

"What?" I ask, worried. It couldn't be, it's too soon.

"While I passed by the bar. It just hit me—" Please don't— "I remembered some things."

Fuuuuuck.

I lean forward, eager, as if it would make her tell me faster. I notice the way I'm white-knuckling the skinny stem of my wine glass, and loosen my hold before it snaps.

"What did you remember?"

"It was foggy, and kinda choppy, so most of it didn't make that much sense. But you were there."

Holding my breath, I nod for her to go on while my other hand slips down under the table and creeps up my thigh. The need to be ready for anything outweighs the risk of blowing my cover in such a public setting.

"Yeah, you weren't lying after all," she chuckles lightly. "We did meet last night at the bar."

My fingers still, then a second later, move away from my holster. Okay, good. This is good.

"Oh. Of course. Can't believe you doubted me."

~~~
7

:58 PM

Between entrées and desserts, Roxanne and I discuss how we are going to navigate the predicament we have decomposing upstairs.

I even took a quick bathroom break and a secret detour to the kitchen where I slipped a young waiter a few bills in exchange for a whispered request. It's nothing, just a harmless plan b in case I need it.

The dinner goes on smoothly from then on, and now, after the dusk has settled down into the early evening and the rush hour has passed, soft chatter from neighboring tables drown out our criminal brainstorming. To everyone else, we look no more than two people catching up over plates of pasta and a shared slice of chocolate cake.

In actuality, I was just explaining in detail how we were going to fit Margot Griffin's body into her own suitcase and stroll her out of the hotel room unnoticed.

Roxanne's eyes are perpetually stuck twice its size since I started mentioning that breaking a few bones postmortem was the easier part.

"It's not like she would feel it, now would she? Besides, we don't have a choice. That's the best option we have right now." I hitch an eyebrow and look at her grim face expectantly. "Unless you have a better idea?"

She grumbles out a no and violently stabs a piece of cake with her fork.

I can't help the smirk that crawls up my lips. "Didn't think so…"

We continue back and forth, her asking a million follow-up questions and me answering them in the most bluntly gruesome ways just to watch her choke up. Really, it's a hilarious sight. I catalog each cringe and gasp in a brand new folder in my brain labeled 'Roxanne Being Unintentionally Adorable'.

Wait, what? Wrong folder. Matter of fact, that folder doesn't exist. I rename it 'Roxanne Being Stupidly Clueless'. Sliding it in between the folders named  'Roxanne Being Annoying As Fuck' and 'Roxanne's Hottest Fits'— that's only because I secretly what to ask her where she shops, duh— I close the whole fucking cabinet in my mind.

There, better.

"You're going to have to steal a housekeeper's uniform, then sneak the body out of the room." I make eye contact with a server from behind Roxanne and subtly shake my head no. "I'll be outside waiting for you."

"Why do I have to sneak the body out?" she pouts. "Ugh."

She's such a whiny brat.

"Because it's the plan," I say plainly. She just grumbles in return. We both know I am her only choice, so we go about this my way or no way at all.

~~~
8

:15 PM

"She's a serial cheater. And while cheating isn't normally an offense that warrants a death sentence, Margot doesn't live in the normal world." I say the last two words with finger quotes accompanying them. "Well, not since she married into the Griffin Syndicate anyway."

"Syndicate?"

After pushing me to tell her about the dead woman for the hundredth time tonight, I finally cracked and gave her the rundown on Margot Griffin, our Mystery Milf, as Roxanne so eloquently put it.

You see, the Griffin Syndicate is one of the most notorious crime families that rule the underworld. They are among the largest smugglers of firearms and weapons in the country, and its Don, Margot's husband, is not known to be a sharer. Of anything. His money, his territory, let alone his wife.

So one could only imagine his reaction when he found out his dear other half, the mother of his two children, had taken up a part-time job as a bed tester. A professional sleeper— of and in other men's beds, that is. And just like that, a hefty bounty was placed on Mrs. Griffin's head by her very own husband. Open contract. Even then, it's like she's addicted to cheating.

Like she can't help but let herself get dragged down by temptation. A moth to flame, a child to candy. A junkie to crack.

"So when I approached her last night at the bar…" she trailed off, her dark eyes unfocused, obviously connecting the dots in her head.

"You were trying to seduce her. And she fell for it." My gaze falls over her figure, leaning back against the back of her chair looking so effortlessly alluring. There's not a single ounce of doubt in my mind that a woman like Roxanne Hayes could pull anyone she wants. Even a straight, middle-aged woman with a penchant for dicks not belonging to the man she brought to the altar.

"And I was seducing her because I was trying to…" Her eyes find mine already fixated on her. I've never seen anything quite like the look swimming in Roxanne's chocolate irises. A dangerous cocktail of disbelief, curiosity, and triumph that could easily get me  intoxicated if I drink it in too much. "Succeeded at…"

It seems like Roxanne isn't ready to finish her sentences yet, scared of admitting things to herself, facing who she might have been before the clean slate she was fatedly handed this morning. "Yeah," I confirm for her.

She picks up her half-full glass of wine and throws back all its contents in one swift go. In an uncharacteristically unladylike way, Roxanne wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and leans forward in her seat.

I can practically see the wheels churning up in that pretty little head of hers, the new questions filtering through her eyes, deciding which one to ask first. That's not good. A couple questions to make sense of her situation is fine, but too many in one night is risky. For me and her both.

I wordlessly catch the attention of the same server from across the restaurant once again, this time signaling him with my hand under the table. I hold up three fingers.

Two.

"So Agatha, I'm curious."

Doesn't she know? Curiosity kills cats.

One.

I incline my head and mouth now at the same time Roxanne continues. "How do you know so much about all thi—"

"Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday to you…"

The chorus encore of every staff working the restaurant tonight interrupts Roxanne's question at just the right time.

"Uhh…" She looks around, startled.

A group of waiters and waitresses head our way, the guy in the middle holding a platter in his hands while the others around him sing and clap in synchrony. They place the tiny single-tiered cake in front of Roxanne, looking at her expectantly.

A deer caught in headlights, she shakes her head and starts to explain how they must be mistaken. But before she can get words out, I slide both my hands to her left one resting on the table and say, "Happy Birthday, my love. My beautiful fiancee. I can't wait to finally be able to call you my wife."

I try my best to look the part of a doting bride-to-be, completely smitten by the woman before me, but it's a challenge to keep my smirk at bay. Her part-horrified, part-amused expression is too priceless.

The crowd awws and coos, an applause erupting across the evening's diners. Once I pull my hand away from hers, all eyes fall to look for a ring, including Roxanne's.

Of course, glittering back at us is a shiny gemstone on a silver band. What can I say, I'm just that good.

We leave not long after, thanking strangers politely for the congratulations they're sending our way as we take our exit side by side, the free cake boxed up and in Roxanne's hand. An imperishable blush painting her cheeks and neck. It's cute.

"What the hell was that for?" she demands out of the corner of her mouth.

The real answer: For me. An unassuming escape plan that was designed to both distract and embarrass you.

The answer I give: "For the free cake. Duh."