King of Cups

A Short Horror Fiction. Barista Chris has had enough of one particular customer. He's ready to go to extreme lengths to make sure she's not a repeat visitor.

“I’d like to speak to your manager,” the woman across the counter said. You’re supposed to use the word “said” versus something more colorful when you write. At least that’s what I read somewhere? It can get too distracting otherwise, the theory goes. But in this case, it would be far more accurate to say, “the woman across the counter spat.” She was close enough, that as I smiled and turned slowly away from her, I grabbed a napkin and dabbed at my face.

“Briana,” I said too softly, my mouth interpreting my mental commands to “keep calm” as “be quiet.” My shift manager didn’t hear me. She was too busy trying to figure out which drink a Gooey Bar went with, and which drink the banana muffin went with. “Briana.” This time I said it loud enough. Maybe even a little too loud. Briana whipped her head around.

“Yes, Chris?” she asked with humorless slate eyes and an enormous toothy smile as she shoved the Gooey Bar and the banana muffin at Malcolm, who was trying to separate some troublesome coffee sleeves.

“This lady would like—”

“Your employee,” the woman began, cutting me off once I’d identified the manager. “Appears to have an issue following directions. Maybe the sound bounces off all the earrings in his ears.” Even Briana’s practiced mask of cheer faltered at the woman’s tone. The specifics of this conversation are unimportant, except to note that the woman—who identified herself as Patricia Billingsly—somehow wanted a latte without milk or any milk substitute. I offered up oat milk as an option, which she heard as oatmeal, and thus my “issue following directions” began.

The important part is that Patricia left the café with a free ten-dollar gift card, I got a warning from Briana, and I wasn’t even in the mood when Malcolm suggested we take our break at the same time and make out in the bathroom. And I never say no to his plump limps and long eyelashes. I barely remember the rest of my shift after that, to be honest. I’d been passed over twice for a promotion. Glenn told me he just wanted to be friends. The student loan people wouldn’t quit pestering me. I got an STI from the first hook-up I’d had in three weeks. And the last season of American Horror Story was terrible and didn’t have Sarah Paulson in it. I can’t blame Patricia for it all, then. She was just the match that lit the flame, consumed in the fire.

Later that night, I was browsing the internet, in this insane loop between checking between checking social media apps and my email. After the third time of seeing the same, stupid try-hard post by a friend of mine who was attempting to be a comedian, I decided I needed to break away. I promise that I didn’t plan what would happen next in advance. My mind was far, far away from where it eventually ended up at that point. But I used my VPN, opened the specialized browser, and hopped onto the dark web. Really quick. I just wanted to get some molly, the whole reason I’d learned what cryptocurrency was and how to get on the dark web in the first place.

I got my order in, and then a thought occurred to me. I knew there was a lot of shit out on the dark web. And I had a decent amount of crypto. So, I started poking around. Just for informational purposes. Just because the edible I took started to kick in. I found what I was looking for in seconds. A very efficient poison, with no telltale scent or taste to it. It wasn’t cheap, but before I could question myself, I had it ordered. It took a week for it to arrive—a tiny dime bag half full of a crystalline grains the color of burnt toast. I held it in my hand, and the vice grip that had been on my chest since Patricia entered my life eased. It was like a part of me had forgotten to breathe and had finally just remembered.

It was another week before Patricia walked back into the café, her dry brown hair gathered back into a tortured mess of a ponytail. She held, in her hand, the ten-dollar gift card.  I made sure I was the one to serve her.

“Hello, there, Patricia,” I said, letting the real joy that I was feeling at seeing her reappearance flow through my voice and my body language. She almost seemed taken aback at the warmth of the greeting. “How are you today?”

“Well, uh, good,” she said. “I’d like a large latté—no milk. And a squirt of mocha in it.”

“Okay, will do. That’s only 3.75. Would you like to add a bakery item?” She smiled and nodded her head (no doubt thinking about the fact that she had a whole six dollars and change of her ill-gotten gains still to spend) and I told her to look at the case, and she could tell me what she wants after I finished her drink. Now, this was going to be the tricky part.

There were four of us working that afternoon, and when we’re busy we’re constantly moving around and over and under each other to get everything made. Slipping a tiny amount of poison into Ms. Billingsly’s milk-less latté was not going to be the simplest of tasks. But her request for a “squirt” of mocha gave me my chance. The flavor pumps were behind me. I had to turn my back to Patricia to put it in. So, I did that first, grabbed a large cup with my left hand, my right hand feeling for the poisonous powder in the pocket of my apron. I squeezed the pump downward, using two fingers from the same hand I was holding the cup in. The thick brown sludge swirled into it. I slid a finger from my other hand into the top of the dime bag, causing the plastic closure to ease open. I pulled the bag out and let five small crystalline grains fall into the cup. It all happened in a matter of seconds, my face flushed, and I couldn’t focus on anything but the beating of my heart.

“Thanks,” Briana said, grabbing the cup from my hand. I looked at my empty hand in shock, until my brain finally registered what I’d heard but not processed in the rush of adding the poison. Briana had asked me to hand her a large cup.

“No!” I shouted, too sharply, as I tore the cup back from Briana’s hands, her eyes wide in shock. I smiled weakly. “I already put mocha in that one. Here you go.” I grabbed a clean cup from the stack and handed it to her. She gave me a questioning look.

“Uh, maybe lay off the caffeine.” Briana walked away to make whatever she was working on. I could feel Patricia’s gaze boring into me from behind. I knew she was judging me. I wasn’t just a screw up, but I was erratic as well. I was flawed, and sad, and maybe even crazy in her eyes. Like all my kind. The comment about my earrings felt pointed. Patricia and her ilk were getting bolder, but they still liked to hide behind comments like this. Things that, if one were to complain, could easily be explained as something other than what it was. This thought, instead of making me angry, had a calming effect. It gave me renewed purpose.

I looked down at the cup in my hand. It was slightly crushed from the back and forth with Briana. I didn’t dare start over. I was too nervous, and it’d already been too awkward. I decanted the coffee into the cup (after all, she had actually just ordered a coffee with mocha in it, since no milk was involved) swirled it with a stirrer, and then transferred it all to a new cup. If anyone had been paying much attention to me, this would have been very odd. Thankfully we were busy. No one noticed except Patricia, that is. But she just looked pleased that I hadn’t tried to serve her drink in a crushed cup. She even smiled at me as I handed her the drink, trying to muster one of my own. But her smile wasn’t one of gratefulness. It was one of triumph.

“Did you think about a bakery item?” I asked, trying to not let my nerves and hatred filter in.

“I’ll take an almond scone.” Patricia swirled the cup around and around in her hand, perhaps not convinced my stirring had been thorough enough.

“Excellent choice.” I grabbed a scone and bagged it quickly, not wanting to take my eyes off her and miss her first swallow. But she just kept swirling it around and around. It was maddening. I handed her the scone. Swirl. Swirl. She handed me the gift card. Swirl. Swirl. I handed the card back, telling her how much was left on it. Swirl. Swirl. And then she walked away. A sudden fear gripped me. What if she hadn’t bought the drink for herself? What if she was someone’s assistant, and was getting it for that person? But then, just as she reached the door and was about to swing it open, she took a big gulp from the cup. I let out a breath.

“Chris, do you need a break?” Briana asked behind me. I turned around, and saw the line of customers looking at me, expectantly, waiting for their order to be taken. I saw Briana staring at me, looking perplexed. I shook off the wave of emotions that had come over me—joy, relief, and righteous triumph, and went back to work.

I spent the next three days searching “Patricia Billingsly obituary” on the internet. On day three, I finally got a couple hits. One from the local paper, and another on a website dedicated to “memorials” for the dead. I didn’t read either article. The job was done. I didn’t need to know the details.

It was two weeks later when Lt. Hernandez walked into the café. I saw her in my periphery, and knew from the moment she walked in she was a cop. She just had that bearing. I stayed turned around, concentrating on making an order for the drive thru. She was in plainclothes, a white t-shirt and a dark jacket and jeans. Her hair was curly—black with brown highlights—and her nails were coral-pink. She had smokey eyeshadow that made the golden brown of her eyes pop. If she’d been the star of one of the many police procedurals that still filled network TV schedules, I would have been rooting for her. Sadly, fate had caused us to meet as enemies.

“I’m looking for the manager,” she said. Briana was working again that night and stepped forward.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“I’m Lt. Hernandez. We’re investigating the death of a woman who frequented this café. Patricia Billingsly,” the woman said.

“Oh no.” Briana’s voice quivering. I can guarantee you she had no idea who Patricia was. But Briana was just that sort of person. She never passed up an opportunity to be sad.

“I’m not at liberty to say why, but I’d like to search the café if I could. I can go get a warrant if I need to. But I’m hoping that won’t be necessary.”

“Oh.” The quiver gone and now, and Briana was all-business. “I mean, I’d love to help. But let me make a call first. I’m not sure what the company’s policy is on this.” Briana ran to the back office. I just kept making coffees and lattes. This was a mistake.

“Hey. You,” Hernandez said. It took me a moment to realize she was talking to me. I turned and noticed that the other two people working behind the counter were frozen, unsure of how to act now that the police were here. My effort to blend in by working had backfired.

“Yes, officer?” I said as pleasantly as I could, trying to muster the courage I needed. She looked at me with those golden-brown eyes, exquisitely framed by thick, defined lashes. I felt naked and alarmed by her gaze, but I willed myself to not look away.

“Two coffees. Black,” she said. “While we wait.”

“Of course!” I said with too much energy, as I ran to get her order. This seemed to snap everyone behind the counter out of their stupor, as they returned to their duties. Thankfully we weren’t busy, but we did have a steady stream of customers. I handed her the two coffees, insisted they were on the house, and then went back to making the orders for the drive thru. I was only vaguely aware of Briana coming back out, politely explaining that corporate wanted to help, but they wanted a warrant and a liaison here when they returned. My focus was elsewhere. I was planning my exit.

As I drove my old beater of a car (I’d been saving for a long time on the hefty down payment on a new one) back to my apartment, I was still weighing the pros and cons of staying put versus getting the hell out of Dodge. Running would basically confirm my guilt. But I wasn’t sure how much the police already knew. I should have known better than to trust the dark web to be honest about the properties of the poison. It was probably traceable as hell. But if I just stayed put, and kept calm, there was a chance they didn’t know about the poison but were just following every lead they had. Even if they did know about the poison, they might not know how Patricia had ingested it.

Every time my mind started weighing the scenarios, I kept coming back to Lt. Hernandez. The way she strode into the café. The way she looked at me. Hell, even the way she ordered her coffee. She projected absolute competency. Why couldn’t I have gotten one of the bored, just-coasting-by cops? As soon as I entered the apartment, and made sure my roommate Fiona wasn’t home, I started packing. If I’d remembered correctly, she was out with her two most toxic friends tonight, which meant she’d be gone at least until three in the morning. I crept into Fiona’s room, not wanting to turn on the light. It occurred to me that the police could already be onto me. Maybe Patricia had told a friend about her confrontation with me. Maybe that friend told the police, and they were watching my movements now? I proceeded with caution. If they were watching, I wasn’t giving them much of a show. I snuck into Fiona’s closet and grabbed one box from her stock of hair color. Autumn Blonde, it was called. She had a subscription through Amazon for them, and always had plenty. I threw it in my suitcase.

I wrote a hasty note telling Fiona I had to see my family back in Boston. I didn’t have any family in Boston. In fact, I didn’t really have any family to speak of anymore. At least that were still speaking to me. But it was all part of the plan. I walked out of the back of the apartment building. I knew this was the moment of truth. If the police were watching, they were watching every exit. Lt. Hernandez would do no less. But I walked out of the back door without police shouting from the shadows to put my hands up. I walked to my car, threw my suitcase in, and was off.

I booked a bus to Boston online on my way to the to the station, stopping by the bank to withdraw all the funds I’d saved for my new car. It wasn’t a lot, but it’d be enough to live on while I figured out my next move. I parked my car in the lot, saying a silent goodbye to its rusted doors, cracking leather seats, and the upholstery falling from the ceiling. I ignored the vaguely wistful feeling surging into my chest and wheeled my luggage behind me. I smiled as I walked, trying to note the security cameras at the station without looking at them directly. I wanted to be conspicuous. But I didn’t want Hernandez to see that I knew the cameras were there. She needed to see me get on that bus to Boston, my entire life savings in my pocket. Every step of the way I waited for Hernandez to call out my name, gun drawn. Even as the bus pulled out of the station, I imagined that there would be a blockade of police cars, lights blazing, ahead. But Hernandez never appeared. Whatever she might have known at that point, I had time on my side. She had rules to follow.

I got off the bus at a stop a little past Hartford, in a small town whose name I didn’t even know. It just looked tiny and like it’d have little in the way of security cameras around. That’s all I needed. I faked a panic attack—feigning to be the delicate gay, really hamming it up for the driver. The man, whose hat looked too small for his very round head, didn’t know what to do with me. I had to explain several times that I just needed to get off the bus, and that I’d figure out my next move before he relented. He opened the cargo door and got my suitcase, still looking a little shell-shocked about my demand.

“I already feel better, thank you,” I said, fanning myself with a copy of People magazine I’d picked up from the bus station. The driver gave me one last look as he clambered back up into the bus. All the passengers on the side of the bus facing me were watching the scene in fascination, although some of them tried to feign disinterest. If I was lucky, the driver wouldn’t report my exit. Maybe fearing that he’d be told by his bosses he should have done more to see me safely to my destination. I knew this would give me just a little more time, if Hernandez and the rest thought I was going to Boston. My exit had been a little too messy, by necessity. Eventually, they’d interview other people on the bus, and the driver himself. They’d know I got off in Nowhere, Connecticut. But I’d be long gone by then.

I walked around town without much aim or purpose other than to try to find a public bathroom that wasn’t too public. The town itself reminded me of every other town I’d ever been, except maybe with more trees. Finally, I found an empty park with a bathroom made of green stone. I was surprised to find a guy—a hairy daddy type in a farmer’s hat, at the urinal. I hadn’t expected anyone to be in there this late. He gave me a quick acknowledgement, and I could then see that he was playing with himself. Honestly, any other time I’d probably have been down for it. I was always a sucker for a hot daddy, so to speak. But I had other priorities. I wedged myself and my suitcase into a stall and sat down on the toilet. I waited for the guy to get the hint, but he just stayed at the urinal. Maybe he thought I was being coy? Or maybe he was used to camping out for a while here, waiting for someone to come cruising by. Whatever the reason, it was costing me time.

After five minutes, I decided I’d had enough, and started to grunt. I balled up tissue paper, dipped it gently into the toilet water until it was a mushy mess, and then threw it noisily between my legs into the water so it made a wet plop. I repeated the process. More grunting. More plops. Please don’t let him be into this, I prayed to no one in particular. Finally, the hatted daddy decided this was not his scene and left. I waited another five minutes, getting warm in the sticky air and hating the cloying smell of the urinal cakes, before I took a chance and poked my head out again. It seemed to be clear, but I couldn’t be sure the daddy wouldn’t come back.

I put on the little plastic gloves from the hair coloring kit and started that going. As I waited, I shaved my beard off as quickly as I could. It wasn’t very long, so the razor did the job well enough, with only a few razor bumps to show for it. I stripped out of my clothes, and put on a Mets jersey, matching hat, and jean shorts that I’d worn to Halloween as a “straight person” costume two years ago. I took all the earrings out of both ears. I crept out of the bathroom and hid my suitcase in the bushes. Hopefully there was a Walmart or something nearby where I could get a new one. But I didn’t want there to even be a chance of me, in my new look, being associated with the old suitcase. I’d just finished drying my now-blonde hair (it wasn’t a bad look, actually) and stuck the hat on top of my head when the daddy showed back up. I froze. He’d seen me in here, looking like “Chris” and he’d seen me as I was now. Was there some way I could get invited over to his house? Maybe put some of the poison in his drink?

He stood at the urinal. There was no sound of peeing, so I knew what he was doing. If he had been startled by my change of appearance, he didn’t show it.

“You must be new around here,” he said finally, smiling at me lustily.

“Just passing through,” I said, with a smile. He didn’t even realize I was the same guy who entered before. “Hitching up to Boston.”

“In that outfit? Good luck,” the man laughed, eyeing me up and down.

“Yeah, some guy took my stuff. You got a Walmart or something near here?”

“Sure do. Need a ride?” With that, he turned to me, and let me take a good look. I weighed my options. It was a complication, but I had to admit the man was making a compelling offer. I wouldn’t have a chance to come back for my suitcase, but all that was in it now were clothes. I could get some new clothes. That might even be better. Maybe “Chris” should end here completely.

“I’m ready if you’re ready,” I said.

***

The next few years were a blur. For the first year and a half, I kept moving. There are plenty of small cafés around the country. Some of which didn’t even ask to see an ID and paid me under the table. I had many fake IDs, of course, purchased at the same time I got the poison. I had hoped running wasn’t going to be necessary. But I was prepared for it, just in case. I never stayed anywhere for more than a few months. It’s not that I thought the police would catch up to me. I was pretty sure my trail was cold. Except, well, I kept killing people.

I honestly thought ridding the world of Patricia would be enough for me. Sure, she was just emblematic of the larger problem—the entitled generation and class who was constantly calling us entitled. The generation that screwed the world over so terribly it looked like there was no recovery. We were all just watching the ticking of the clock and filling up the minutes with useless social media screaming matches. The generation that called us snowflakes or pansies, when we’d been through two recessions, 9/11, a pandemic, the constant threat of being gunned down in school—but I digress. I don’t want to make this seem like it was a crusade on my part. It wasn’t. Each and every time it was personal. But all this other stuff, it was static in the background.

In a small town in Ohio, a man—in his 60s, dressed in a smart business suit—slipped a brightly colored piece of paper into the tip jar. It was Monopoly money. A joke. He got a few grains of poison in his mocha latte the next time he was in. In Springfield, Illinois, a state senator was so busy talking on the phone she knocked her scalding hot coffee off the counter and onto the arms of one of the other baristas. The barista’s arm was red the rest of the day. Her assistant was all apologies as the senator walked away. But she did ask for a replacement. The next time the senator was in, she got a few grains. This went on and on, across five different towns, working my way westward and then south.

It was in a small town outside of Houston, Texas that I cut things too close. Doctor Bruce “Bobby” Watkins had come into the Mornin’ Buck café wanting a shaken almond-milk iced coffee. Doctor Bobby was a full-on Texan—meaning the hat and the bola tie and boots. He was a plastic surgeon, although his business card (which he’d thrown into a jar to enter a contest for free coffees for a year, despite his immense wealth) used some discrete euphemism for “plastic surgeon” instead. I was busy making the drink when I heard him talking to the owner of the café.

“Not sure I want a little fruit in my drink, if you know what I mean,” Doctor Bobby said in a stage whisper. I pretended I didn’t hear him, but I didn’t even wait for his next visit. I’d become pretty slick adding the poison to drinks at this point. It was almost like a magic trick. A little misdirection, a quick slip into my apron pocket, letting the grains stick to the skin of my fingers, and a quick swipe along the cup’s lid. And then I shook, and shook, and shook that iced coffee up well. I smiled as I gave Doctor Bobby the cup.

It was only by chance that I had the late shift the next day. I was a couple blocks away from the café when I saw two police cruisers parked near the it. I think they were trying to be discrete, but they did a poor job of it. I turned immediately around and started planning my way out of town. I hadn’t been able to prepare like I usually did, since I’d acted on pure impulse and rage. I’d only headed in for my shift as it was pay day. I found out later that Doctor Bobby’s assistant had used one of the emergency medical kits (on hand in case something went wrong with their patients) to save the man’s life. He was able to tell them immediately where he’d been. By this time, my exploits had been covered by a few different cable shows—To Hunt a Killer, To Catch a Criminal, Crime Catchers, and a few others—so they zeroed in on the idea that the “Café Killer” was on the prowl again. Yeah, that’s the name they gave me. I’d have gone with something else, but it wasn’t up to me.

The experience at the Mornin’ Buck shook me awake. I realized I needed to lay low for a while. I still had most of my savings, as I’d been able to use my money working at the string of cafés instead of dipping into that. I bought some camping gear and planned to rough it out in the wild for as long as I could. In Washington state, I met a group of like-minded individuals. We started traveling together, and I ended up falling hard for one of them. The relationship lasted a little over a year. The details aren’t important. I loved him, and he gave me hope, and then it was over. That’s just how these things go. My savings was almost depleted, so I decided to rejoin the working world, at least for a little while.

I was in a bar in Portland, washing up after peeing, my “seal” most definitely broken. I looked into the mirror. I’d grown my beard out long and scraggly in the woods. I’d been dying it, and my hair, red. If you’ve never dyed a beard, I don’t recommend it. It’s a pain in the ass. The sad part is, I wasn’t sure it was even necessary. I didn’t recognize “Chris”—or even any of the other aliases I’d used over the years—in the face in the mirror. There were dark circles under my eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a good night’s sleep. Not because I was haunted by what I’d done. No, my ghost was in the form of confident, capable Lt. Hernandez. I often wondered how the last few years would have gone if I didn’t have the image of her in my mind. Spending over a year roughing it in nature had made my skin look like shit, far away from the careful moisturizing routine I’d maintained in my old life. Since landing in Portland, I’d gained fifty pounds as I’d adjusted poorly to having too much food nearby and nothing near the same level of exertion as when I was out in the woods.

I slid back up on my seat at the bar, finding another Heineken waiting for me. I nodded my thanks to the bartender. He was a college kid, with tanned skin and large muscular arms that filled out his short-sleeved black shirt nicely. He was probably only a couple years younger than I was, but I felt at least ten years older. I’d secured a job at a big café chain using one of my fake IDs. That wasn’t something I’d ever done before. I’d always stuck to small cafés so I could avoid any complications of background checks. In hindsight, I guess this was a sign that somewhere, somehow, I knew I was in the endgame. I was lost in my own thoughts, until something on the TV broke through my stupor.

“—talking to Lt. Cecelia Hernandez, who’s made it something of a personal mission to stop the Café Killer, on the third anniversary of the death of his first victim, Patricia Billingsly,” said the reporter. And then there she was, on the TV screen in Portland. My own personal, beautiful, capable ghost. The years had been kinder to her than they had to me. There were circles under her eyes, and strands of silver through her curly black-brown hair. Her lipstick was bolder in color. Her eye shadow was less smoky and brighter. This made me smile, which caught me off guard. I suppose, in a way, I had still been rooting for her all these years.

“It’s difficult to think three years have gone by,” Hernandez said. “Three long years that the family of Mrs. Billingsly—and all of Christopher Porter’s victims—have been waiting for justice.” They say there is power in words. I think I believe it, now, because hearing Hernandez say my old name seemed to magically bestow it upon me again. The months of depression following my break-up, the obscuring power of years on the run, all fell away. I didn’t listen to the rest of the news segment. I downed my beer, laid a wad of cash on the counter, and left the bar. I had work to do.

Hernandez talked about justice, as if that was something that the police were capable of meting out. They tried, sure, but they worked in extremes. They became involved when someone crossed the line. But there was no one to save the world from the small injustices. The unkind words, the hateful rhetoric, the lack of good will and empathy—these were the everyday injuries we inflicted on each other. And we do it with so much frequency that most of us have just shrugged and said, “this is how it is.” This is how we’ve made the world unbearable. Hernandez wanted justice. I wanted justice. Maybe there was a way we both could have what we wanted.

It was bitterly cold the next day—colder than it usually is this early in November in Portland, from what the locals told me—as I walked into the door for my shift, green apron in hand. I smiled at Wally—a bucktooth, aging hipster with tattoo sleeves of nothing but anime characters—who managed the location. I loved Wally, he was so sincere in his passions, and I admired him for it. Also, he had the hots for me, so he was easy to manipulate.

“Want some help setting up for tomorrow?” I asked. Tomorrow was the big event—the release of this year’s holiday cup. It was an annual tradition, which brought in customers in ridiculous droves. Crowds of people waiting and waiting for a reusable cup. Wally laughed.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever volunteered for that before,” he said, his head turning involuntarily to the back, where boxes and boxes of the cups were waiting to be unpacked, unwrapped, and stacked for tomorrow’s onslaught.

“Honestly, I could use the distraction. I got dumped. Just in time for the holidays,” I said. Wally’s eyes flashed in the way I hoped they would. I’d used my imaginary boyfriend as an excuse to keep Wally at bay. Now I’d just removed that obstacle. Besides, playing heartbroken and depressed was a role I had a lot of practice at. That night it was just me and Wally. We had fun. The most fun I’d had in a long time, to be honest, as he rattled off a list of his favorite anime series and invited me over for a movie night that would never happen and unpacked the boxes of cups, hung the appropriate signage, and prepped the stocks of the season’s new baked goods and flavor add-ins. It was very late now, and Wally’s energy was failing.

“Look, if you want to head out you can. I don’t come in until later. I can finish doing the clean-up,” I said. Wally hesitated a moment, but he seemed touched by my offer and far too tired to really put up much of a fight.

“You’re an angel. I mean that. I’ll lock the front door. Just exit out the back. It’ll lock as you leave. We don’t have to put the bolt on for one night,” Wally said. He gave me a hug that lingered a little longer than an HR person would have approved of, and then he left. I waited five minutes, to make sure he’d gone.

I took the first stack of holiday cups and started to unstack them. I lined twenty of them up on the counter, took out my dime bag—yellowed with age or an interaction with the poison itself—and started depositing grains inside. One grain in the first—enough to make someone sick. Two grains in the second—enough to at least put someone in the hospital. The chances of survival were fifty-fifty. And then three grains in the third—enough to ensure death. I repeated this pattern until my dime bag was empty except for three tiny little grains. I put those in one of the cups, and then put it in my backpack. Then I restacked the cups. Did poison lose potency after all these years? I didn’t know. The randomness was part of the point, though, and I figured that was just one more variable.

I went home, filled the bright red and green cup I’d reserved for myself with some store brand instant coffee, and sat down at my laptop to type this out. I hope you get to read this, Cecelia. It’s a lovely first name, by the way. I hope you don’t mind me calling you that. It’s probably too much to ask you to understand it. Especially the grand finale. I suppose you might think I’ve been capricious and cruel. You’ll know who the victims are. Their names and addresses, and you’ll have talked to their loved ones. Maybe they’ll haunt your dreams. Will I? I hope not. The truth is, I want the best for you. I hope you get a promotion.

First sip. Tastes awful. But I think that’s just the coffee. Maybe you’ll think this the ravings of a mentally deranged person. I can’t really judge that. It’s just that word. Justice. It gnaws at me. Does it gnaw at you, Cecelia? You seem like one of the good ones. One of the cops that really believes in it. But you must see how weighed down one side of the scale is, right? It has been for so long. For my entire life, certainly. The systems have failed us. Who or what is left to believe in? Every man, woman, and child for themselves. The poor starve and die and we barely blink. The worst of us ascend to power on a wave of money and corruption and we’re just supposed to be a good worker, a good student, a good mother, a good citizen—you get the idea.

All I wanted to do was find someone and watch shitty reality shows, eat some passable Chinese food, and talk about movies. Maybe have a quick fumble and fall asleep. Instead, on the news they give airtime to a leathery-faced woman with frazzled blonde hair talking about how I shouldn’t be allowed to adopt children. About how my friends shouldn’t be allowed in sports. Outside a storm rages, and the planet is dying, and they want the power to look up little girls’ skirts to “protect” them. How long do you think they can press their thumbs on the scales and not face an equal and opposite reaction? They don’t even try to hide it anymore. There’s just so much anger out there. So much anger within me. And I’m very, very tired. And this feels like the just thing to do. Strange as that is to say.

 No, I don’t think you’ll understand it. Maybe the reasons, but not the act. Not this random, awful thing. But it makes me feel better thinking you’ll at least read it. Because I trust you, and your capability, Cecelia. Maybe you can make sense of it where I can’t. I have no illusions this will shake anyone awake. What are a few more deaths these days? Nothing. The parent company of the café chain will issue a statement of carefully worded grief. They will assure customers that their product is as safe as it ever was. After all, these were the actions of one sick man. So be sure to come back next year for your free cup! And they will all line up. They will line up in droves as too few workers struggle to fill their cups again with their sugar and dairy and caffeine. Because we are all hungry for it. The rush before the crash.