Do Not Disturb (Deanna Madden, #2)

by A.R. Torre

In my back pocket is a twenty. I felt so mature slipping it back there—like I was a kid with Mommy’s credit card. Look, I am an adult. I must be an adult because I have money. I am an adult because I left the house on my own. I am an adult because I can handle myself. Buy a snack and not try to kill anybody.

I wonder, briefly, if eyebrows were cut out of a face, how much they would resemble caterpillars.

I don’t look around. I can’t. I will go apeshit crazy if given the chance. Fill up a shopping cart like those contestants from Supermarket Sweep. Shriek with glee while I stuff samurai swords and grenades in FtypeBaby’s trunk.

FtypeBaby already gets looks whenever I take her out. Necks crane, her occupants are examined, a dead body would be noted. Plus, her trunk is puny. Big enough for designer luggage, too small for a dead body. I should have thought over these things during my car selection process.

I’m at the stage of stabbing her to death with her cheap pen when she finally shuts up, returns my credit card, and looks up with a dry expression that I think is a smile.