A name on a bright pink poststick note pushed through my door. It has come from a Client, though the name has passed through many mouths and minds before arriving here.
A quick google search can normally give me their city, work place, possibly a postcode. Sometimes I have to dig deeper, a few lines of code, a few firewalls cracked, but within ten minutes I can find out everything I need to know. Their address. Their place of work. The names of all their family members. The names of their children. The names of their childrens school.
My parents are, by nessasity, my accomplices. We move with each new job. I start at the school and change my name. Gemma. Daisy. Polly. Maisy. I tell my story; parents moved jobs, parents divorced, I was bullied in my old school. And then I infiltrate.
In a day I’m sitting with my target at lunch. In a week we walk to school together every day. Two weeks in and I invite them over for tea, three days later they return the favour.
First time is reconisance. I already know almsot all I need to know about my target; if they work from home, if they take medication, if they have any health conditons, if the own a gun. Now, between movie marathons and just dance, I get to know the house. Where the pills are. Where they keep the gun.
There are many ways to effectivly kill someone. Heart attacks are good, change their medication so they go into cardiac arrest. Poisinings are similar. Faked sucicides. Push them off a building, shoot them in the head.
Thats what I do today. I excuse myself to my friend, ask to go to the toilet, and go upstairs. I’ve already acquired the gun from the basement down stairs. I put on some gloves and retrieve the weapon from its hiding place. Then I go to the office and open the door, gun behind my back.
He looks up, perplexed. ‘Hi, uh, Maisy?’
I blush, ‘Sorry, wrong room.’
He motions that its okay, and I back away, he looks down.
I step to the side and shoot him in the side of his head. He flops like a puppet come lose and blood spills over his desk. I smile.
I place the gun in the dead mans hand, making sure to press his finger tips firmly against the handle, then I rifle through the desk and find some overdue bills. I place them on the table, and let them soak up blood. I take the gloves off and stuff them down my bra. I smile. The perfect suicide. The perfect murder.
I go back to the doorway and open my mouth and scream.
‘I heard a gunshot.’ I tell the police later. ‘I opened the door and then-’ I sob, and the police pat me on the back and send me home.
We stay for three more weeks so as not to arrouse suspecion. I comfort my victims child and then go through therapy, pretend to be tramautised, my parents decide to take me to a new city. There are tearful goodbyes with my new friends. Then we move. Sell our house, not that we need to, with the thousands flowing into our off shore bank account. We go to a new city. New name, new hair colour, new school, new pink poststick note.