“I need to make a call, tell them I’m running late.” I smack the phone out of her hand and it goes flying across the room and smashes the glass of a black and white photograph over the reception desk, landing on the floor in splinters. Liz draws back her injured hand.
“No calls,” I say matter-of-factly. She backs up towards her office door and she turns the knob when her hand lands on it, without taking her eyes off me, though she can’t seem to bring herself to look at my face. Surely she’s noticed the cat suit by now, it can’t be comforting. Once in her office, she reaches for the light.
“No lights,” I say, placing my hand firmly on hers until she relents and abandons the switch. There’s enough light coming in from her windows for us to see each other clearly, and I don’t want anyone possibly peeking in from outside. Liz moves to sit in her regular chair. “The couch,” I say, pointing her to it. She reorients herself and sits on the very edge of the couch, perched like a bird about to take flight. I sit comfortably in her big leather chair. I cross my legs doing my best impression of her. I almost wish I was wearing a skirt so that I could make the same swishing sound that Liz does when she crosses her legs. I like that sound. The cat suit makes an interesting sound, but it’s not the same.
“So, how was your week?” I ask gamely. Liz laughs awkwardly, a brief hope surging in her that this is not going to be horrible. I can see the idea light up behind her eyes and take flight. Sometimes, I do like to get their hopes up.
“Um, it was fine, Lola, how was yours?”
“Fine. Fine. Thanks for asking.” I smile at her but it doesn’t seem to reassure her. “So, Liz, I gotta tell you, I got here a little early today and I noticed that there were about thirty cops waiting for me.”
“Cops? Lola, I just…I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I look at her hard and she crumbles.
“You need help Lola, you need real help. You can’t go around killing people and hurting yourself, I had to turn you in, I didn’t have a choice.”
“You know…that sounds really familiar.” I pause and put a finger to my chin as if trying to puzzle something out. “As a matter of fact, wasn’t it you that told me that we all make our own choices?”
Liz stammers, “Y-Yes, but-”
“No but. You brought yourself here. You wanted to write another bestseller. Your instincts told you – rightly so – that there was something unique about me, something dangerous, but you wanted your bestseller and you were happy to use me for that purpose and so here we are. You decided to engage with me, you decided all of this, and now you’ve decided to betray me and I don’t think for one moment you’re stupid enough to believe you’re going to get away with it.” She’s still shaking, trembling under her blouse so that it shivers constantly, but her response is insightful and surprises me.
“Is this why you picked Friday at six for your appointment? You were always going to kill me, and if you kill me on a Friday night-”
“-Then it takes them longer to find your body,” I finish for her.
“Then, then, really none of it was up to me. It didn’t matter what I did, you were always going to kill me.” She seems to think she’s come up with some brilliant counter argument.
I sigh dramatically. “No Liz, it’s just that I know people. They suck. They always betray you. I knew you would betray me, it was only a matter of time, and I knew that once you betrayed me I would kill you. And so here we are. Your choices.” I put my pointer fingers into a little meditative steeple position that I’ve seen her do before. It seems fitting. Liz breaks down in front of me. She’s a shuddering, crying mess, practically ruining her pretty silk blouse, but it was going to be ruined in a few minutes anyway, so I don’t suppose it matters. I take her notepad out of the top drawer and put it in the wastebasket. I take the laptop and smash it into tiny shards with my fist. It’s possible some techie somewhere can still salvage something from it, but she’s already given the police all her notes and surely they’ve got my fingerprints, so I’m not sure how much any of it matters anymore. Maybe I’m doing it more to scare her. She runs, but before she can even get to the door I grab her by the back of her neck and throw her up against the wall. It knocks her out and she lies in a little silk and high heels heap on the expensive rug. I use a lighter in one of her drawers to set fire to her notebook and toss it into the wastebasket. I’ve known how I was going to kill Liz since the first day that I came to visit her in her office, but it just occurs to me now, for the first time ever, standing over her, while smoke slowly fills the room, that she’s more useful to me alive.