Grim Reaper
ESTELLE
The video has five hundred thousand views. I refresh the page. Five hundred thousand and twenty-one.
The end of my career was not only recorded and made available online for everyone to see—that would be bad enough—but the thumbnail also implies that this was my fault.
That I was reckless and almost killed the ambassador of one of our nation’s greatest economic rivals, and nearly caused a diplomatic crisis.
With a peanut.
Lies. Lies. Lies.
I stuff my phone back into my pants pocket, the frustration bubbling so high that I feel the back of my neck ache.
When will this nightmare end?
I have been ostracized and smeared for something that wasn’t even my fault, and worse: I’m too broke to defend myself.
I close my apartment door and lock it with a sigh, then repeat today’s affirmation as I make my way down the long corridor to the rickety elevator.
Today will suck less because I said so.
The shiny black Cadillac SUV is parked on the curb; I spot it as soon as I step outside my apartment building. It stands out like an expensive sore thumb in this neighborhood next to my tiny red Fiat that has seen better days.
The passenger side door of the Cadillac opens, and a burly, rugged-looking man in a black suit steps out. He’s wearing black sunglasses too dark to see his eyes, but I know he’s looking at me.
“Miss Signon?” he asks.
I almost lie. “Yes. What’s this about?”
“Mr. Fuentes sent us to give you a ride to his home for the job interview,” he says.
My whole body tenses. “That’s quite alright. I have a car and directions. I can—”
“I have to insist. Mr. Fuentes’ terms. If you decline the ride, the interview will be canceled.” He opens the back door and waits for my response.
This is the part where sane people turn around and walk away. Only I’m too desperate and decide insanity is less costly than all the bills I have to pay.
My feet begin to move toward the car the moment the decision is made.
“Your phone, please." He shifts until he’s in front of me, blocking my way.
“Is that really necessary?”
He doesn’t answer.
Mr. Fuentes’ terms.
I pull the phone from my pocket and reluctantly hand it to him. Once he’s stuffed it inside his jacket pocket, he knocks twice on the window of the driver’s side.
The door opens, and an identically dressed man steps out, also with dark sunglasses on.
“Raise your arms and spread your legs, please,” he says with a commanding tone.
I don’t immediately do as he says. “Are you serious?”
Again, no answer.
I lift my arms slightly and spread my legs, hoping my neighbors don’t walk by and see me like this. A long, racket-looking device—a metal detector—is at the ready in his hands, and he starts waving it around my body.
When he reaches my crotch, it emits a high-pitch beeping sound, causing both men to look up at my face, waiting for an explanation.
I want to lie, but my mind is utterly blank. I realize resignedly that the truth is my only choice.
“It’s a piercing,” I breathe out quickly.
The corner of Number One’s mouth quirks upward, while Number Two presses his lips together firmly, but thankfully, neither of them say anything.
Once he’s done, I’m handed dark sunglasses and a small, clear plastic pouch with a pair of orange earplugs inside. I look up to stare incredulously into the opaque sunglasses of Number Two.
“Wear them once inside,” he instructs.
The smell of a brand new car greets me, as if it was just bought this morning or still on a test drive.
One at a time, I place the earplugs in my ears, trying not to freak out when the whole world is completely muted. The sunglasses slide onto my face next, and my breath hitches.
I can’t see a single thing.
These aren’t sunglasses, they’re essentially blindfolds.
This is the moment I should call this off, run out the door, and never look back. That’s what normal people would do.
I feel the impact of the door closing, feel the vibrations of the engine coming to life, and am thrown against the backseat from the momentum of the car’s acceleration.
All the arguments and positive self-talk I used to prepare myself for today have turned to ash.
My own thoughts mock me now. What was it I said about this being just like any other job interview? Nothing I haven’t done a dozen times, right?
I will blend in with his other employees, the voice taunts in my head. Look at you now in the backseat of the Grim Reaper’s car, being escorted by his goons, blind and deaf with no idea where you’re going.
The address I was given by his secretary three days ago must have been some kind of ruse. There’s no way they would be going to these lengths to keep me from seeing where they are taking me if it was the same place.
Now I get how the Mafia boss has kept off the radar for so long—endless precautions, especially with new people. After what feels like an hour, the car comes to a stop. My hands are fidgeting as I wait for what comes next.
I feel the door opening. A large hand circles my upper arm, not gripping tightly, but applying enough pressure for me to understand that he will be leading me.
Gravel crunches under my flats.
One step after the other, then my toes bump against an obstacle.
One of the earplugs is removed. “I’m going to lift your sunglasses so you can walk up the stairs. After, I will put them back on,” Number One says.
Light floods my eyes, making me squint. Once they adjust, I gasp at the sight of the palatial building in front of me: high windows and towering walls with vines creeping up the sides.
Like a modern castle.
“Miss Signon, the first step, please,” Number Two instructs before the earplug is stuffed back in my ear.
I look down and begin to head up the white stone steps leading to the large double doors. I have a moment to admire the intricate carvings in the wooden surface before the sunglasses descend over my eyes again.
Stone floors and crisp air shift to sleek floors and warmth. We’re inside.
We walk for a while, and nervousness coils tighter in my gut. No one will hear me if I scream. No one will find my body, and—
Number Two stops walking, the sunglasses come off, and once more my eyes struggle to adjust.
The first thing I see is a pair of green eyes—sharp, framed by long eyelashes, with thick, dark brown eyebrows resting at the foot of a flat forehead with a few soft, horizontal lines interrupting otherwise smooth skin.
His features are immediately familiar, which is only because I stayed up late last night looking him up online.
The few pictures of him that exist are either blurry, taken from afar, or half-shielded by bodyguards.
He doesn’t smile.
Doesn’t move.
Only watches me silently, probably waiting to see if I will freak out at the sight of him.
That would be the normal reaction.
I square my shoulders and stare back into the eyes of the Grim Reaper himself.
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