Janet watched out the window for her daughter to arrive home from work. She had spent the last hour plotting the detective’s demise. Gail would bring him home, make sure he was comfortable, then retreat to the kitchen. She would make two drinks, one laced with crushed sleeping pills. She would begin a lengthy description of her life—all made up—while the drug began working its magic. By the second round, the detective would be unable to stand, and his words would be slurred. He’d be putty in their hands, completely at their mercy. Janet was sure a homicide detective had seen plenty of tortured victims during his years behind the badge, and soon, he would learn firsthand what slow torture really felt like.
Something flashed past the window. It was the van, and Gail was home. She had just over an hour to shower, dress to impress, and get to the steak joint. That night, she planned to work her magic like never before.
Seconds later, the door opened, and Gail passed through into the kitchen.
“Tonight’s the night, honey. Are you excited?”
“Hell yeah, but I’m going up against big time moral resistance. It’ll be a test to see who wins.”
“You have to win. You told him you were leaving town on Sunday.”
“I got this, Mom, so have some faith. I’ll bring him home, and between you and me, we’ll work our own kind of magic on Detective Jesse McCord.”