Page 75 of Haven't Killed in Years
“Then you shouldn’t have touched it. Now, finish up and then head back to your room.”
“Please,” she begged. “It’s my birthday.”
“Happy birthday,” he said. “You have ten minutes.” He made a point of motioning to the wall clock as he walked away.
Natalie stared down at her blue dinner, breathing and waiting for her emotions to regulate, waiting for Gwen.
“Ew,” said Gwen as she sat down and noticed the tray. “Did Declan do that?”
Natalie nodded, hoping Gwen would be mad, but instead she smirked.
“He’s such an idiot.” Gwen slid Natalie’s tray away and put her own down in between them. “Here,” she said, handing her the plastic knife, “cut mine in half. We’ll share. I’m not that hungry anyway. Plus…” Gwen reached into her pocket and pulled out something wrapped in a napkin.
Natalie put down the knife and grabbed the napkin, unfolding a brownie, her favorite.
“How did you get this?”
Gwen shrugged. “Nancy owed me a favor.”
“Thank you,” said Natalie.
They ate in silence for a moment, Natalie staring down at her food, Gwen with her eyes up, always aware of her surroundings.
“Did you think of anything yet?” Gwen asked. “Anything special for your birthday?”
“No,” said Natalie. “But I have to go to my room once I’m done, because I threw the tray. This brownie is special though.”
“Eh,” said Gwen. “I have a better idea.”
Natalie perked up. “What?”
“Look,” Gwen whispered as she nodded toward a small plastic container in the corner of the room—a poison bait station for the mice that ran willy-nilly through the place.
“So what?” asked Natalie.
“Go get it. I’ll distract the guy.”
Gwen headed over to talk to the attendant and Natalie slipped out of her seat. She made sure no one was looking, especially Declan, and then she swiped the container. It was gross, dusty, with cobwebs trailing from the wall, but Gwen wanted it, so she happily shoved it into her pocket.
Forty
Natalie
Natalie pulled out apot from the drawer next to the oven and turned a burner to medium. She dropped in the chicken and broth to cook while she chopped up the vegetables. Then she dumped them in too. She left the box of rodent poison in the paper bag on the floor, like there was nothing nefarious behind it, like she had purchased it for the sole purpose of eliminating mice.
She checked the clock. It was half past nine. Gwen would get to Painting Pots at eleven, when it opened. She never went early on the weekends since she didn’t have to leave for work.
The soup smelled pretty good. Natalie skimmed the top with a spoon and brought it to her lips. She blew on the liquid, sending a ripple through it until it was a safe temperature. It was salty and flavorful, all thanks to the prepackaged broth and not any real culinary skill or effort.
She moved the pot to the back burner to cool and reached into the drawer that housed her collection of glassware, neatly sorted and stacked. She pulled out a small round container and its complementingtop. As she closed the drawer, the brown grocery bag stared directly at her, unobstructed. She placed the container on the counter and reached into the bag.
Natalie held the box in her hand. Wesley was a grown man. It probably wouldn’t even do anything.
She put the box down, only for as long as it took to pour the soup into the container, and then it was in her hands again. She peeled open the box and slid out the contents. The bait wasn’t in powder form, not like she remembered; it was a green cube. She freed it from the plastic packaging and stared at it on the counter. It was a sign—a sign not to do it. A sign she didn’t listen to.
From her junk drawer, Natalie pulled out an all-in-one multitool. She gripped the handle and slammed the hammer end down onto the green cube. Chunks broke off from the edge. Then she smashed the smaller pieces until they turned to powder. She held the soup container below the counter and scraped the powder over the edge, watching it disappear into the broth.
She cleaned up the unused poison, and as she washed her hands in the kitchen sink, she caught a glimpse of the microwave clock. It was 10:45 a.m. She was never going to make it to Painting Pots by eleven. How had she lost track of time? It was so unlike her.
