But I don’t actually want a new job, if I’m being honest. I’ve published three romance novels under a pen name, and the third one is actually selling some copies. It’s an unexpected turn of events, considering how few people bought my first two books, but it means I’ve had to work overtime on the next one, so I don’t lose momentum.
And maybe, with a little luck, they’ll start selling enough copies so that I don’t have to worry about finding another mind-numbingly boring day job.
Of course, now I have to worry about a podcaster shining a very bright light on my past, and possibly someone finding out that it’s actually a suspected murderer writing their new favorite rom-com. No one except my agent, my publisher, and my grandma knows about my career as a romance author, but I’m a favorite subject for the amateur internet sleuth.
The thought nags at me all weekend. Monday morning, I run extra miles on the treadmill in the gym at Nathan’s complex, and then head to the grocery store because I need to tell my feelings to chocolate. Lots of chocolate.
The grocery stores are never empty in L.A., even on a weekday, because no one here has a real job. I maneuver around a woman at the entrance who is talking on her phone and wearing leggings that probably cost more than my entire outfit. They make her butt look great, though.
I turn my cart into the produce section. Maybe I’ll get something to chop into tiny pieces in front of Nathan.
（A nicer person would just say, “Hey, you heard about the podcast, didn’t you?” and put him out of his misery. I should try to be less of an asshole. Tomorrow, maybe.） A slim blond woman is tapping a butternut squash with one finger, and I try very hard not to imagine smashing the squash against her head.
I fail. Squash, as it turns out, is a weakness of mine.
I wonder whether it would even hold up after being smashed against a human head. It would probably explode and you’d just end up with a headache and squash all over your face.
The woman looks up and notices me staring at her. I smile like I wasn’t just imagining bludgeoning her to death. She walks away, casting an alarmed glance over her shoulder at me.
I really should try to be less of an asshole.
I don’t want to think about murder, but I can’t seem to stop it. I don’t do it with everyone, but I’ve imagined killing a whole lot of people.
It started not long after Savvy died. Everyone said I was a murderer, and I couldn’t say for sure that I wasn’t, so I started thinking of all the different ways I could have killed her. I thought that if I went through enough options, I might actually land on something that sparked a memory.
So far, no luck. But maybe one day I’ll stumble on it. I’ll imagine killing a waitress with my empty milkshake glass and it will all come rushing back. Ah yes! That’s right! Savvy and I fought over whether strawberry or chocolate milkshakes were best and I flew into a rage and murdered her with my glass. Take me away, Officer!
I really wish the police had found the murder weapon. It would have spared me a lot of imaginary killings.
My phone buzzes. I glance down at the screen to see the word Grandma, which is unsurprising. Telemarketers and Grandma—the only people who use the phone in the way it was originally intended.
I accept the call and press the phone to my ear. “Hey, Grandma.”
The guy next to me gives me a small smile, like he approves of me talking to my grandma. I push my cart to the corner, in front of the cabbage.
“Lucy, honey! Hi. Are you busy? Am I interrupting?”
She always asks whether she’s interrupting, like she thinks I have a packed social calendar. I don’t even have any close friends. Just some work acquaintances who will definitely never speak to me again.
“Nope, just grocery shopping,” I say.
“How’s Nathan?”
“He’s … you know. Nathan.”
“You always say that, and I don’t know what you mean. I’ve never met the man.”
“He’s fine.”
“I see.” She clears her throat. “Listen. I have a favor to ask.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a small favor, really, and I’d like to remind you that I’m nearly dead.”
“You’ve been saying you’re nearly dead for twenty years.”
“Well, then it stands to reason that I must really be getting close then!” She cackles.
“Are you drunk?”
“Lucy, it is two o’clock in the afternoon. Of course I’m not drunk.” She pauses. “I’m merely slightly tipsy.”