Dead Politician Society

Chapter 27: Annabel

Cancel? Cocksucker. In a text, so she couldn’t trip him up by asking why.

She jabbed at her miniature keyboard and pretended it was Matthew’s chest: Know what? Let’s cancel indefinitely.

Annabel had left work at noon. Her sore throat had morphed into a fever and she couldn’t see in straight lines. But she could press Send.

In under a minute, her phone chirped.

Matthew: Will make this up to you. Swamped with work, deadline with editor tonight.

Bullshit. He would have known about any deadline when they’d made plans the other day. She tried to come up with a clever snide reply but her brain wasn’t feeling snappy, so she went with stone cold silence. Let him interpret that as he pleased.

If anyone should have canceled their movie plans, it should have been her. She was the one who was sick. A nice boyfriend would bring his work over to her place while he tucked her onto the couch with hot tea and a good book. But she didn’t have a nice boyfriend. She didn’t even have a boyfriend. She had Matthew.

She stirred the pot on the stove—bones and herbs that were beginning to fill the condo with their nourishing aroma. She could make her own damn chicken soup.

Her phone chirped again. But it wasn’t Matthew.

Utopia Girl: Like my obituary this morning? I’m hurt you didn’t print it. Do I need to include a credit card number next time?

Annabel rolled her eyes at her BlackBerry.

Death Reporter: Honestly? I found your note confusing. Like you don’t know why you’re doing this.

She probably shouldn’t have been quite that honest, but clearly illness had a way of making Annabel get to the point.

Another chirp.

Matthew: Tomorrow night? Saturday?

Annabel: Busy all weekend.

Yeah. Busy doing nothing. But The Rules was clear on this: Never accept a date for Saturday after Wednesday. Today was Thursday. Which meant the soonest Annabel could make herself available—and only if Matthew acted now—would be Sunday.

Her phone chirped again and she was tempted to turn the thing off. Spend the evening alone with her tea and soup and cold meds that made her feel like she was floating on a sea of pain that was starting to feel oddly pleasant.

But of course she looked to see who it was.

Utopia Girl: I know exactly why I’m doing this.

Annabel wanted to throttle the phone.

Death Reporter: So tell me. All I can see from your two so-called obits is that you’re picking off politicians who you see as expensive for taxpayers.

Did that mean Utopia Girl was in a high tax bracket?

Utopia Girl: I’m not *picking* anyone off. I’m systematically purifying our political landscape to make room for politicians who want to do the job they’re paid for.

Again—paid for. Implying that Utopia Girl owned a business, or knew something about running one.

Annabel stared into her soup. She wished she could disappear into the pot and swirl around with the bones, drawing nutrients from the water and becoming one with it. This wasn’t a suicide wish. Nor did it rep the desire to read some weird Margaret Atwood novel. Just her mind’s roundabout way to suggest she could use a hot bath.

She turned the soup down to low and took her phone into the bathroom. As the warm water ran into the tub, she typed.

She nearly asked how Utopia Girl gained access to the politicians but deleted that. It would sound like she was working with the cops, and also she didn’t want the answer. If she had a clue—anything that might identify Utopia Girl or her future victims—she’d feel compelled to go to the cops. And the sooner she was caught, the less compelling Annabel’s book would be to a publisher.

Jesus, Annabel could slug herself for that thought. She hoped it was the flu that was distorting her morals, not some crazed ambition. She closed the toilet lid and sat down.

Death Reporter: How many more are on your hit list? Are you just going to keep going until you’re caught? Or is there a master plan?

Steam from her bathwater warmed the small room. She shouldn’t have her phone in here. Steam could damage the mechanism. And she suddenly realized she was way too hot for a bath. She took her temperature: 102. She could make herself seriously sick if she elevated that. She slipped back into her flannel PJs and padded into the open living room and kitchen area.

Back to Plan A: soup and sofa.

She was worried that her last question had thrown Utopia Girl off. That maybe she wasn’t the smooth criminal with a master plan Annabel hoped for.

A chirp.

Utopia Girl: Yes. There is a master plan.