Empathy (2 page)

When I called the police the next morning, telling them I got up to find my dad had an accident, they didn’t question my story that he was a drunk, and no one cared enough to argue foul play. The reports said accidental death. Our father was well known for liking the bottle.

Ryan and I moved in with our waste-of-life mother, and if it wouldn’t have been suspicious for both our parents to have accidents in such a small time frame, I would have killed her too. Instead, I gave her money to disappear for days at a time until I turned twenty-two, finished my degree in criminal justice, joined the police force and got custody of Ryan. Then I paid her to disappear to distant relatives.

I took martial arts classes and shooting lessons after that night. I wanted to be able to protect my brother from any threat. I earned extra money through my computer skills to buy Ryan anything he needed and to support our mother’s habit. Ever since I was little I knew computers. I can hack pretty much any network, and I used that skill to earn petty cash from students wanting grades changed, or finding information on people that was kept in confidential files. I worked solely through my computer; I couldn’t risk my identity being compromised. To contact me you had to already know about me through word of mouth, then email one of my many accounts that would go into spam file I never opened, so if someone stumbled across that email account, it looked inactive on my part.

This system also worked for me when I became a contract killer. I can see the sender’s email address without having to open the email. Just having that small piece of information, I can get into their emails, send viruses that clone their hard drives, giving me access to everything they do, which in turn gives me passwords to their accounts, including their online banking. I can find out every single thing about them and their life with one simple address, and if I find them trustworthy and wealthy enough to afford me, I bring up a chat box, scaring the shit out of them. I have two more chats with them before completing the job they want me for. Then I never speak to them again.

I have only a few rules:

One: Never do more than one job per client. Once they see how easy it is to get away with murder they tend to become a little kill happy. They would have me killing the neighbor for playing music too loud if they could.

Two: Never take a job close to home. When people use the term ‘don’t shit where you eat’ well, I don’t kill where I live. It just makes sense.

Three: No one knows who I am, my name, age, what I look like or if I’m even male; which is why everything is done through an untraceable computer.

I make a shit load for my services. I have to be clever not to flash my cash, swapping my funds into offshore accounts and getting a normal job so I look like everyone else. That’s why I joined the police force; who better to teach you how to kill and how to avoid being caught than the police?

My life course was chosen that night when I was eighteen, when I took a life and didn’t feel remorse. When I overheard some rich college kid telling his friend he would pay a million for someone to kill his overbearing father, I knew he was talking hypothetically but I also knew there were people who would pay for someone to kill for them and right then, in that moment, my career path was chosen. It took me six months in the academy, training, three months field training, two years cut loose on patrol and I made detective at the tender age of twenty-five. I’m the youngest detective to ever be sworn in at our department but I’m good at my job. Just like they train me to be a better killer, who better to find criminals then a master criminal?

“MELODY.” THE T.A ECHOES MY name as he sifts through a stack of papers on his desk. He grins up at me when he finds mine and hands it to me. “You write about music with so much passion. Appropriate, really, with your name.”

I offer him a weak smile. The truth is, music is my mom’s passion. I was taught piano and made to have vocal lessons to appease her but I want to go into journalism, do some good, and report real news.

I walk the steps to take my seat next to the guy who I now know as Ryan; it’s scribbled on his paper with an A grade beside it. He always wears dark clothes and eludes interaction by never looking up from his notepad. I’ve attended creative writing for four weeks now and not once has he looked at me. I occasionally brush my leg with his, just to see if I can provoke any reaction from him. It never works. He’s always so engrossed in whatever he’s writing, as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist. My curiosity to know what he writes when in that world of his has made me lean towards him on more than one occasion to steal a glimpse of what makes him worthy of those As, but I still receive no reaction, not even a
back off
.

A few assholes called him a freak on the first day, and then went on to talk about what they would do to me.
Wreck me,
I think they said. I thought college would be different from high school but it turns out the dynamics are pretty much the same.

My thoughts go to Zane. We dated through high school and he was popular for all the right reasons. He played sports and was intelligent. He had no time for bullies and gave everyone a chance. He was confident, outgoing and gorgeous. We had a puppy love, pure and beautiful. When we parted at the beginning of summer with a promise to always be friends it was a sad day, but a necessity. We were headed to different colleges after spending a year traveling together, temptation would be everywhere. He’ll always have a special place in my heart. He was my first love, the boy I gave my virginity to, but it wasn’t soul clenching, heart stopping love. We both deserve to have fun and then, later in life, find the love that devours everything that came before.

I rub the tattoo on my wrist. Zane used to call me his moonflower; “Queen of the Night,” a species of cereus flower that only blooms at night. I’m not a morning person. I’m often late and grumpy and I only come back to life at night. Zane told me I blossom in the moonlight, and he took my innocence under the beam of the moonlight in the back of his pickup truck. Not romantic to most but it was perfect for us, and he carved a little bit of his identity into my soul that night.

A sigh leaves me, making me conscious of the fact I’m in class and not at home alone. I risk a look at Ryan, who luckily, remains true to his character, ignoring me. His eyes almost seem shut, like he’s snoozing. I stroke the moonflower with LIVE tattooed underneath it. Zane and I got identical tattoos the day we parted, to remind ourselves to live. Life can be too short for some of us, a lesson he learned after his sister was the victim of a hit and run. Annabelle died at the scene, left in a ditch for three hours before she was found. If the car had stopped and got her to hospital she would still be here, breathing, going to school, falling in and out of love. Dreaming, aspiring to be the actress she wanted to become, to live a life beyond her short thirteen years. The same week, a celebrity who had passed through our town was getting married; guess which story got the front page?

I slip my paper into my bag without checking the grade and take out my tablet. I quickly check my emails while I wait for the class to fill. There’s an email from my mother dated yesterday, reminding me she would like me to visit this weekend. Her and Daddy won’t be happy I haven’t replied. I check my phone, relieved but surprised I don’t have a missed call or text from them. I read through the email. She’s called a family meeting and wants me there, repeating the same information she told me a week ago. I involuntarily roll my eyes at the screen, knowing how much of a drama queen my mother can be. If I go all the way home just to be told she wants my opinion on drapes for her new study, I will scream. I’m already dreading the night drive. I left it too late to book a flight after insisting I didn’t need Mom to do it for me. I close the email screen and look up at the T.A, Mr Walker, who hushes the class.

“There were some great pieces handed in for your first assignment.” He looks at me and Ryan with a soft smile and a head tilt, making me blush when all eyes follow his.

“And then there were some that made me think you only took this class because you had no other choices.” He frowns, looking over at the jock douches who take slouching more seriously than the class.

“For your next assignment I want you to partner up.”

Ryan groans and yawns; it’s the most vocal he has ever been. A small smile lifts my lips at his obvious dislike of interacting with something other than his pen.

“I want you to pick one thing one of you is really passionate about, discuss it in detail and then both write about it. I want to see how different the perspectives are from the person who is passionate about the subject and the partner who is indifferent about the subject.”

I watch as the jock asshole in the front row stands and looks over the rows of seats; his eyes land on me. He walks towards the stairs, his gaze never leaving my face.
Oh, God. No way am I teaming up with him.
I nudge Ryan harder than intended, making his pen slip and draw a line across his paper. I grimace when his eyes turn to me and squint; they’re cold, like a black abyss.

“Sorry,” I mouth, my nose wrinkling. My eyes widen as the Jock gets closer. Ryan notices him approaching and speaks up.

“She’s partnering with me. Go find different prey.”

The jock opens and closes his mouth for a minute before grunting his reply. “Why would she want to write about your passion? You’re a depressed freak who probably cuts himself.”

Hairs rise on the back of my neck and my stomach drops. What a narrow-minded, childish thing to say. I’ve felt a weird need to stick up for Ryan ever since the first day of class when I saw him sitting on his own with his face in his notepad. He’s different, quiet and he does seem to only wear black but it’s just jeans and a tee. He looks normal; not that someone who chooses to dress differently isn’t normal, but he’s better than normal. He has brown wavy hair, thick and mussed into a just-got-out-of-bed style. His dark brown eyes are oval shaped, and his lashes frame them perfectly, giving him an intense gaze. He has full lips and a strong jaw, a lean athletic build and he’s easily six foot tall.

“And how did you come up with that assumption?” Ryan asks with honest curiosity, a grin on his face as he taps his pen on the table.

The jock laughs and points at him. “Look at you, always wearing black, never speaking or looking at anyone. You scream self-harmer.” He smirks, obviously proud of his observation.

“Wow, your assessment should be written in a psychology text book. Seems you have it all figured out.
Or
you could be a stupid fuck whose mentality is still stuck in high school.” Ryan shifts in his seat, leaning towards him, his tone confident. “I wear black because I happen to look good in black. I don’t look at people often because when I do, chicks think I want to fuck them and guys think I want to fight them. I don’t talk to people because it’s rare I find anyone worth engaging in conversation.”

I’m speechless and my eyes burn a hole in the side of Ryan’s face. I can’t look away. He’s always seemed withdrawn and yet here he is, confident and bold.

“Everything okay here?” Mr Walker asks, walking up behind the jock whose fists are now clenched so tight his knuckles have paled and his eyes are burning into Ryan’s.

“Everything is fine, Mr Walker, but I have to leave early today if that’s okay?” I politely ask, drawing his attention to me.

“That’s fine, Melody. I’ll email you any notes you might miss out on today.”

He turns and walks back to the front of class, quickly followed by the jock. I look to find Ryan’s intense gaze on me. I smile and his eyes scan my face.

“Hi,” he says, his voice deep, warm. I feel heat from the blush I know is tinting my cheeks.

“So, I’m worth engaging in conversation?” I raise an eyebrow.

One side of his mouth lifts into a half smile. “Well, I don’t think we can do this assignment without talking, so I’m taking a chance that you might just have something worth saying. I’m very interested to know what you’re passionate about, Melody.”