ChapterOne
OLIVIA
On Monday morningI glanced in my rearview mirror, eyeballed my crooked tiara, and thought, not for the first time, that I should be nominated for sainthood. Or at the very least—and preferable best—receive a fat raise from my boss.
“Who is it you’re supposed to be?” the teenage girl from the backseat asked.
“Queen Elizabeth.” I adjusted my crown and eased into the left lane. I’d like to say this was my first time driving in a full-length gown, but it was not. When your employer encouraged “fun” by way of too-frequent theme days, you got used to driving in all sorts of costume accessories. Last week my car was in the shop, and I had to catch an Uber dressed as Count Dracula. Turns out, you have to tip extra when you wear fangs.
“Alexander, quit hitting your sister.” I threw my bestdon’t-you-darelook to the backseat, where Alexander Coulson used his fourteen-year-old sister’s shoulder as a punching bag.
“Everyone in the sixth grade thinks you stink, Alexander,” Katarina taunted. “They told me.”
“They do not!” he countered.
“Do too!”
I turned down the audiobook their mom, and my boss, insisted they listen to during our commute. A dulcet British voice narrated a boring classic no one in the car cared a whit about. Heaven forbid Celeste’s children listen to something corruptive like popular music or one of my riveting murder podcasts. Last week’s auditory punishment had been a tutorial on Latin verb conjugation.
“Ow!” Katarina retaliated by jabbing her pointy salon nails into her little brother’s arm.
“Remind me what we’re celebrating today?” I called out as I pushed the gas pedal toward the floorboard. Celeste had called with an emergency, begging me to pick up her children at home in Sugar Creek and drive them twenty minutes away to their elite private school in the next town. How could I possibly say no? Never mind that these emergencies happened at least two times a week and occasionally included what I called “add-ons.” These might entail—but were not limited to—picking up poster board en route, leaving extra early for Kat’s volleyball practice, or getting halfway to their school only to realize someone had left behind a lunch box, homework, or the class hamster, requiring a return home.
“We’re celebrating Alexander remembering to wear underwear.” Katarina stuck her tongue out at her brother.
“Are not!” Alexander doled out three more punches, which barely provoked a flinch from his stout sister. “I’m the new robotics club president.”
“That’s great, Alexander,” I said. “I know your mom is thrilled.”
Today’s “add-on,” at Celeste’s command, was a celebratory trip to the Starbucks drive-through. I’d purchase the kids’ breakfast and iced mochas, using my own hard-earned money but Celeste’s rewards card. Why? Because my boss told me to, and I never let the woman down.
“My mom doesn’t even remember I’m in the robotics club,” Alexander said.
“I’m sure she does.” Was that a lie? No. In the PR business we called that framing information. Because Celeste could remember the birthday and favorite drink of every client we’d ever courted, but her ability to recall details of her children’s lives was sorely lacking.
“I askedherto take us for our celebration Starbucks.” Alexander’s bottom lip curved downward in a sad pout. “But she had to leave early for the office, just like she always does.”
“Mom told you she’d make it up to you.” Katarina dropped her usual acidic attitude and bestowed a rare, sympathetic look upon her younger brother. “She has a lot to do to get ready for today’s promotion announcement.”
“What?” The car lurched toward the left lane, eliciting honks from the truck beside us and squeals from the backseat.
“Are you trying to kill us?” Alexander cried. “I’m too young to die. I have robots to create and a world to take over!”
I bypassed the rearview mirror and stole a quick glance behind me, locking eyes on Katarina. “Did you saypromotion?”
My boss’s daughter didn’t bother looking up from her phone. “Maybe.”
I turned off the audiobook as I lost all chill. “Tell me everything you know and do not leave out one detail.”
Katarina lowered her device for half a second. “What’s it worth to you?”
It was all I could do not to reach one hand toward the backseat and yank her up front with me. “I’ll get you a double shot of espresso in that mocha.”
Katarina didn’t even have to think about it. “I don’t want the sugar-free version.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
“And I want whipped cream,” said the crop top–wearing negotiator. “Make thatextrawhipped cream.”
