Pov Joe:
You're a smart girl, Beck. I mean that. You've got your head in your writing—that's why you came to New York instead of rotting away in that Kentucky hole.
Although… maybe.
Maybe you could stand to be a little more careful.
The cab rattled over potholes, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that I got lucky—I ended up with your phone, Beck. I thanked God when I reached into my pocket and pulled out my own instead of yours. Now I've got a direct line to you, to what you think, what you want.
No password, Beck. Really? What happens if some psycho thief snatches it? He'd have your private photos, your whole life, at his fingertips.
So yes, you're smart. But maybe not as smart as you think. Not if you don't lock your phone. Not if you fall for men like Benji.
The taxi stopped a block further down. When it pulled away, I was left in a private little argument with myself. Beck, I knew you and Benji were probably doing it right then. I could've gone to see you, watch you, but the thought of seeing you with him instead of me—no. That I couldn't stomach.
So I waited for another cab, to take me home.
Everyone needs someone. You need someone to save you. That's why I'm here. That's why you met me.
I climbed into the next taxi, pressed my forehead against the window, and let myself drift into the future. You'll be a great writer, Beck. We'll have children. I'll take care of everything. All of it.
...
"Joe."
The name stopped me halfway up the stairs. Paco's voice, cutting through the night.
What kind of parents let their kid roam the streets at this hour?
"Pac—hey. What's wrong? What are you doing out here?" I stepped closer. His face told me what he didn't want to say.
"It's Ron. He came home drunk and… started screaming. Said I think I'm smart because I read books, and I look at him like he's some kind of idiot." Paco dropped his eyes.
"Did he hit you? Did he hurt you?"
"No. Not me. But…" He reached into his jacket and pulled out the copy of Don Quixote I'd given him. The cover torn. "I tried to stop him, but I couldn't. I'm sorry."
"Pac. It's fine. Really. Don't worry about things like this." I took the book from his hands. "We'll fix it."
"You can?"
"Come with me. You'll see."
The kid only nodded.
I flipped the lights in the basement. One by one, six bulbs hummed awake, casting soft shadows across the room. The glass cage caught the glow. My childhood haunt. The next hotel for someone I didn't like.
Paco trailed me to the worktable near the hydraulic press. Ron had split the spine, so it needed repairing.
"The first step in fixing anything," I told him, shrugging out of my jacket, "is knowing it doesn't matter how broken it looks. It can always be put back together. Books aren't an exception."
I laid the jacket over a chair, picked up the ruined Quixote, flipped through the pages. At least they weren't damaged. That kind of repair would take more time—time I didn't have. A grown man shouldn't linger in a basement like this with a kid like Paco. If anyone ever found out, prison would be my fate. And if I'm in prison, Beck, who will look after you?
"You understand?"
"Yes." His eyes were bright, curious.
"Good. This machine—" I gestured to the press. "Keeps the spine and cover locked tight. That bowl? Polyvinyl acetate glue. Won't burn the paper. And finally—imported by Bugs Bunny himself—the mallet."
I wrapped my hand around its short wooden handle, admired the black head. I'd used it years ago, not for books. My gaze slipped toward the machete in the corner, half-hidden in shadow. I prayed Paco wouldn't notice. I need weapons, Beck. To protect myself. To protect you.
Or maybe… to protect you from yourself.
For the next few minutes I showed Paco how to repair the book properly. Someday, if Ron tried again, Paco—if I left him the keys—could come down here and fix it himself.
....
Time to save you.
I've always been prepared, Beck. That's why I created this account years ago: [email protected]
You don't bother checking things like that, so you'd never know Herzog is just another pompous asshole who prides himself on being a "food connoisseur." According to Vulture, he's some culinary celebrity.
Benji worships him. He retweets Herzog's reviews, hoping, begging for a scrap of attention. Meanwhile, the pathetic readers of HomeSoda.com keep whining that their site hasn't gotten the Vulture treatment.
Until now.
I use the Herzog account to send Benji an email:
I've just discovered the most exquisite soda of my life. I realize I'm late to the party, but I'd love to meet. There's a bookshop on the Lower East Side—Mooney Rare and Used. They've got a café in the basement. Shall we?Sincerely,N.
Benji replies in seconds:
Of course, Nathan. I'm honored. En route!
I don't answer. Who the hell types en route?
I shoot a text to Ayanokoji and Ethan—don't come by today. No complications. Ethan: "Great." Ayanokoji: 👍.
I turn the corner just in time to see Benji tugging the door handle at Mooney's. Perfect. My luck's holding. I grin. This is happening.
"There he is. The man behind Home Soda."
"Mr. Herzog. An honor." His eyes light up with admiration.
He's wearing a Brooks Brothers blazer. Christ. Why?
"Sorry I'm late," I say, fishing in my pockets, keeping up the act. Food critics are always distracted, scatterbrained. "Promise it'll be worth your while."
I unlock the door. We step inside. Benji's too nervous to notice when I lock it again.
"What a gem," he says, looking around. "Do they really serve coffee here?"
"Sometimes."
He heads down the stairs—straight into the glow of the glass cage.
"Uh… I don't think this place is for me." His instincts, finally kicking in.
But before his eyes could meet mine, I swung the mallet. It cracked against his skull, and his body crumpled with a heavy, final thud. Still. Silent. I checked anyway. Out cold.
The first one.
I drag him toward the cage, muscles burning, but it feels good. He's mine now.
Now I need to decide what to do with him.
And after that… what to do with Ayanokoji.
How, exactly, should I kill him?