I take a few moments to regain my breath and get my head on straight.
The hallway is a study in luxury, from its thickly carpeted floors to the wall lights at regular intervals between the widely spaced doors. These apartments are big. I eye the cameras tucked up against the ceiling. There are no blind spots here, so I’m doubly glad for Bellerophon’s help.
I check the number on the key—that Odysseus provided knowing it what it would be used for—and head down the hall to the door matching that number. It’s on the end, which is just as well. I’ll only have to worry about neighbors on one side, and even then, I’d bet my last paycheck that the soundproofing in these units is top of the line. Gods forbid you see even the tiniest evidence that you’re not in a house with four walls to yourself.
In my apartment, sometimes it feels like I’m literally rubbing elbows with my neighbors. I can tell what they have for dinner and know the cadence of their walk from memory. It’s not exactly a restful living experience, but they’re mostly good people and so I make do. And, truth be told, it makes me feel less alone on the bad nights.
You’re stalling.
I take a deep breath, press the key into the lock, and slip into the apartment. I close the door softly behind me and engage the deadbolt again. It’s late enough that most of the lights in the main living area are off, but the curtains are open and so there’s plenty of city light to see by. It’s a nice space. Big and luxurious with an open concept that will make sneaking around tricky. It’s also empty.
Maybe she’s not home. I don’t know much about mistresses, but judging by the apartment itself, she’s raking in Odysseus’s money. Not that it will do her any good after tonight. The thought makes me sick to my stomach. She won’t be out with him; he’ll no doubt be spending the evening with his wife, securing his alibi.
I clench my fists and have to count slowly to ten to combat the surge of pure rage. If anyone should be punished for this situation going shitty, it’s him. But that would mean one of the precious legacy families seeing consequences for their actions, and that’s something Olympus and the Thirteen will never allow to happen.
It’s not my business. I might jump at Athena’s behest, but I’m not a person who gets to ask questions. I certainly don’t get to demand justification or changes to the plan.
Somewhere down the hall, a melodious voice rises in conversation. I tense for a long moment until I realize she must be on the phone. At least I can pinpoint her location now.
I survey the space again, this time with an eye for staging. The problem with pills is that I need her to swallow them. I drift into the kitchen and check the wine rack. It’s half empty and there’s an open bottle on the counter. I sniff it and make a face. I don’t drink as a general rule, so I can’t begin to guess if the taste of the wine will cover up the bitterness of the pills. It smells nasty enough to do it, but if she drinks wine regularly, then maybe not. And if she only drinks a little, it might not be enough to get the job done.
Still, she won’t feel a thing, even if I have to smother her afterward.
I shudder.
It has to be done. I don’t have a choice.
I listen closely, but she’s still talking to someone somewhere down the hall. Probably in her bedroom. I ignore the guilt trying to choke the life out of me and carefully tap the entire bottle of crushed pills into the bottle of wine. I pick it up and swirl it a few times, hopefully helping things dissolve.
The voice starts coming down the hall.
Fuck.
I cast a wild glance around, but hiding spots are in short supply. The only option is to fling myself behind the couch in the adjoining living room and hope she doesn’t turn on the lights. I crouch there, working on keeping my breathing under control and silent, as light footsteps pad down the hallway.
“Yes, Daddy, I need a new dress. We talked about this. Yes, I already have a blue dress, but I wore it last time we went to The Dryad. You can’t honestly expect me to wear the same thing twice, can you?” Her tone has a girlish lilt to it that sets my teeth on edge. She laughs, high and sweet as she walks into the kitchen. “Don’t play games, Daddy. You know I need the money tonight or they’ll add another two weeks onto the turnaround time. Please?” She takes on a playfully whining tone. “Please.”