Page 17 of Pieces Into Place

Within minutes, I’ve convinced myself that he was one hundred percent wrong and I bear zero responsibility for the outcome of our first meeting. I’m mumbling the justifications to myself and finishing the last sip of my wine when I’m struck with a realization. He finds me attractive! It may be the wine talking, but it makes complete sense. The new janitor with the pretty eyes wants me.

I slip inside, pour another glass of wine, and return to my spot on the deck. By the end of the second glass, I’m more convinced than ever that he took one look at me and was so struck with my beauty that he forgot how to act like a decent human being.

Wow! It’s sad if you really think about it.

Later, I scrub my teeth and rinse with mouthwash, still pondering the janitor’s behavior. It’s clear he’s captivated by me, but all I can feel is pity for him. I wonder what kind of life he’s led? Was he a high school dropout or an ex-convict? Questions swirled in my mind as I fell into bed.

Just before I drift off to sleep, I realize with dismay that my whole night has been spent thinking about the strange janitor with a seemingly endless fascination for me – or maybe it’s the other way around.

Damnit.

Chapter eight

Kane

I eye the tiny, misshapen turds in the small toilet with disgust. How hard is it to flush? As a former military man, I have seen some foul things, but this is a new level of repugnance. Kids are disgusting.

‘Hope you don’t fall in,’ I mutter to myself thinking about the prissy teacher as I scrub latrines, pry gum off tables, and mop up vomit that looks like spaghetti. This place is a carnival mystery house of biological nightmares.

As I empty the trash cans in Olivia’s classroom, a sarcastic thought crosses my mind. She’s a real gem, entitled and self-centered – just as I had suspected when I took this assignment. She tried to get under my skin earlier, but I refused to be bothered by her nonsense. Hope you don’t fall in…

Finally, I sigh and look around at the mess in the classroom. What in the calamitous fuck have I gotten myself into?

This is not the first job I’ve had protecting someone with a questionable character. I make sure not to get caught up in the moral debate; it’s just part of this line of work.

Still, this assignment is going to be difficult on many levels. I try not to learn too much about the people I am hired to protect – it helps me maintain personal boundaries. But, I can’t help but be curious about Olivia Monroe. She changed her name and escaped her father somehow. Why?

What little I do know of her is that she needs to watch where she walks, she’s stubborn and will likely refuse protection if aware of it, and surprisingly feisty for living in a world ruled by mobsters who have been known to take revenge on entire families and bloodlines.

I take in her classroom, trying to get a better understanding of who she is beyond the mob princess. I’m sure that since she was born, her father has treated her like royalty. Her discipline this morning reinforced that.

Perhaps there’s nothing more to her than that, but my intuition tells me otherwise. Every desk contains a handwritten note with a child’s name and an inspirational message. It must have taken her a long time to do this. In one corner are twinkle lights and a cozy reading nook, something I could have appreciated as a kid being bullied.

I pick up one of the stuffed animals, a large ladybug still with its tag attached, and realize the gesture isn’t as benevolent as it appears when I remember she’s probably using her dad’s money, even if they’re not on good terms.

She may have difficulty interacting with adults, but she is adept with the language of six-year-olds. I finish cleaning her classroom, dodging small pellets of waste and pieces of old food as I go to find where she lives.

After stopping by my place to freshen up and grab a quick bite, I head over to the address Henry provided.

The building is pleasant, yet not overly extravagant. There are no entrance gates or codes required, which is strange considering her accustomed luxurious lifestyle.

I locate apartment 323 on the third floor and park my Ducati motorcycle before walking around the complex. Families and single dwellers fill the floors; some have wreaths hung on their doors or welcome mats in front of them. Her door though remains lifeless and uninviting compared to her classroom. She must be trying to keep a low profile at home.

I stand outside her door for a minute, listening for faint noises coming from inside. Eventually, I hear a small person moving around followed by running water. It seems that she has not been killed in the past several hours, or if so, it had to be done by the world’s smallest and cleanest assassin.

As I’m about to start my bike and ride away, Olivia steps out on her balcony.

She looks peaceful in her sweatshirt and glasses, sipping wine from a glass and reading a book while she gazes at the nearby hills. Then she stops and puts her pen in her mouth, her eyes shifting up and right as if deep in thought. Her lips begin moving rapidly as she talks to herself – arguing with herself, judging by her expressions. Great, I think. She’s a complete nutcase; no wonder so many people want her dead. Even though I should go, I find myself watching her apartment until long after she’s gone inside. When the lights finally turn off an hour later, I drive to my temporary place, call my parents to check on Annie, and try to get some sleep. Busy times ahead.

At 7:15 the next morning, Olivia’s car appears on the road. Always punctual, this makes it easy for bad guys to target her with her predictability. If I had access to her, I would advise mixing up her schedule to avoid predictability, but since I can’t do that, I’ll just have to keep an extra close eye on her.

I follow behind on my bike, keeping a respectable distance so she won’t spot me. She drives the speed limit during the seven-mile trip to school.

I hang back when she parks and watch as she emerges from the car looking like Minnie Mouse, with a red and black polka dot dress and small heels. It’s kind of like ‘Golden Girls meets Lucille Ball.’ It should look ridiculous on a woman her age, but she’s pulling it off. It cinches at her small waist and flares around her hips. I’m not sure if I love it or hate it, but seeing as how she’s wearing it, I settle on hate.

In one hand, she holds coffee, in the other hand, she has a stack of recently copied worksheets and a collection of Amelia Bedelia books. In the crook of her arm, she cradles a potted Boston fern, while various colorful items threaten to spill out of the bulging tote bag precariously sliding off her shoulder. This woman, always carrying fourteen different items in her hands along with a large bag slung over her shoulder, is a circus juggling act of self-important bedlam. As I watch, an idea sparks in my mind. It’s wrong but I can’t shake it loose.

I rev the engine of my motorcycle as I pull out from where I’m parked on the side of the school and speed by. Startled, her coffee cup falls to the ground with a crash and she screams. The Boston fern and once pristine worksheets and books are strewn across the asphalt. Her tote bag has lost its wrestling match against its contents, which have sprung free in a colorful melee of construction paper and Crayolas.