Page 6 of Bronson

Salespeople aren’t supposed to be kind. They’re supposed to trail me through the store, inspect my cheap shoes, and make it obvious that someone like me has no business touching anything behind their glass. Their contempt makes taking from them easier. Almost satisfying.

Alice hadn’t given me contempt. She’d given me her hand. Her name. A smile that made me feel welcome.

For one reckless second, I consider leaving with nothing.

Then I turn toward the butterflies.

As I turn to the case, my breath catches in my throat. Before me on the counter sits a metal black tree with thin branches. Its limbs are curled into loops and hooks. Jewelry hangs from its metal curves.

My gaze travels to a thin silver chain, dangling from the end of a branch. Hanging from the chain is a tiny diamond-encrusted butterfly. Its little wings are spread, ready for flight.

The charm reminds me of when one of our patients leaves this earth. (Die and dead are two words I do not allow at Our Home.)

As they struggle to take their last breaths, their hands feeling paper thin in mine, I imagine them as butterflies.

Delicate, fragile things. But then they beat their wings, rising above the ground, strong enough to fly away from the pain.

Reborn in beauty.

I reach out, touching the charm. It’s cool against my skin, the weight surprisingly heavy as I slide my fingertip beneath it.

She is ready to fly.

Right into my bag.

The butterfly wants to be free. To be taken home with me. To be worn around my neck, its delicate chain sparkling as it turns and twists with my movements. Only I know how special she is. She wants me to have her. If I don’t take her, inevitably some spoiled rich brat will receive her at a birthday party, along with a dozen other gifts. Toss her to the side with an unconvincing thanks, then never think of her again.

She belongs to me.

I can feel it.

“Hello, little beauty,” I whisper. “Want to come home with me?” The familiar feeling swells in my belly. Nerves, excitement, the thrill of the act.

And guilt. The one emotion I try to ignore.

Perspiration prickles at my hairline. My palms are itchy. The little hairs on my arms all stand on end. I slip the necklace from the branch of the tree. A glance to my left tells me Alice is still on the other side of the store. My fingers close around the butterfly.

Alice laughs at something across the room. The bright sound travels through the store and lands directly on my conscience.

Put it back.

My fingers loosen. The necklace slips halfway toward the branch.

Then the diamond wings catch the light. The familiar hunger opens inside me—that empty, grasping place that never stays satisfied for long.

I close my fist again.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though Alice is too far away to hear me.

I slide it into my bag.

I am in such a trance, I don’t bother to do my usual sweep of the rest of the store. Normally after a steal, I would wander about the shop, taking any attention away from the area of my crime. I never rush after a conquest. I always take my time, looking calm, collected.

But everything about today is different. I came into this store, unplanned, in my work clothes. The sales assistant was nice, young. And although I’d only planned to playact, I now have a piece of Bachman’s in my bag, ready to go home with me.

The nervous thrill begins to cool, but the satisfaction I usually feel never comes. The little butterfly seems heavier inside my bag than it did in my hand.

I tell myself Alice will never know. Bachman’s will replace it. No one will be hurt.