1998
Why can’t I do it?” Star demanded, her bottom lip protruding slightly. She looked like a child—she was a child—and Orchid felt a swell of protectiveness that was almost maternal.
“You’re too young. You’re too new,” Orchid said, lifting the hair off the back of her neck. It was sweltering in the small apartment—too many bodies, too little air-conditioning. “If you fucked it up, there would be real consequences.”
“I wouldn’t fuck it up,” Star pleaded. “It’s easy. And we could use the money to get a bigger place. A little house maybe.”
“I said no.” Orchid brought the bottle to her lips, sipped the tepid beer. The money was tempting, the thought of more space a definite draw. Four of them slept in this noisy studio, two mattresses on the floor and a broken-down sofa serving for beds. Ten grand would set them up somewhere decent, adjacent but a bit removed from the chaos.
“It’s not even dangerous,” Star said, lowering herself to the floor in front of Orchid’s armchair. There was something worshipful in their positioning, and Orchid felt a swell of power. And responsibility. The three girls in this apartment were her court, her commune, her children. They would not survive without her, not for long anyway.
“It’s not even murder,” Star said.
But it was. And if Orchid allowed Star to do it, the girl would never make it off the streets, would never have a chance to live a normal life. Star would have crossed a line that changed who she was, made her a killer. It would twist her, calcify her, shrivel her soul. Orchid tried to protect the girls’ psyches as much as their physical beings.
Allan had explained what he wanted. A grease fire in the kitchen that would lick the curtains, light up the whole house. His wife was a drunk, he told them. She’d be passed out in her bedroom by 4:00 p.m. The assassin’s job was simple: set a pan alight in the kitchen and then leave. No one would think twice about a housewife full of wine passing out with a pan on the stove, succumbing to the smoke before she could call 9-1-1. Allan would collect the insurance and be rid of his wife. And someone would collect ten thousand dollars. But not Star.
Lucy lay on the sofa, a lazy smile on her features. She was drinking too much lately, and Orchid would soon need to intervene. The girl sat up, movements languid, serpentine. When she spoke, her words were slightly slurred. “I can do it.”
She could have. Lucy, like Orchid, had been forced to do unthinkable things to survive. These acts of desperation would have crushed most people, but Lucy had become callous, impervious. She’d left that filthy trailer a damaged girl and morphed into something new: hard exterior, sharp edges, an internal force for survival. Lucy was a machine. Still, Orchid wanted to protect her from the worst.
Orchid glanced at Tracey, sitting in the corner, picking at her cuticles. Her hair was lank and greasy, eyes black, mouth sunken. Orchid had rescued this girl from a garbage-filled tent, folded her into the coven, but Tracey had suffered too much. She was using, numbing herself, disappearing. It was only a matter of time… Orchid was simply sheltering her until the end came.
Orchid turned to Star. “I’ll talk to Mal. He’ll get it done for eight. We’ll take a two grand cut, and we won’t need to get our hands dirty.”
“Why settle for two grand?” the girl whined. “I told you I don’t mind getting my hands dirty.”
“And I said no.” Orchid glowered down at her. “Stay out of it, Star, or you’re out. Do you understand me?”
“Got it.” The girl got up, moved toward the bathroom. But Orchid didn’t trust her. She’d have to watch Star carefully.