A One Woman Job

Chapter 1

1

Meg

I open the front door of my house to find a woman staring back at me.

My first impression is: boss bitch.

She’s tall, her navy-blue pant suit is impeccable, gray hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her hands are clasped behind her back. I’ve never had someone stare at me down the length of their nose, but that’s exactly what she’s doing. Observing me like a scientist watches a mouse trying to navigate a maze.

One of my four younger siblings is wailing for Cheerios from within the house and I really don’t have time for whatever this woman is going to say, but this is not a salesman. Nor is she someone who gets doors closed in her face. I’m rendered sort of immobile as her sharp brown eyes trail down to my ratty sneakers, up the length of my bike shorts and oversized Ghostbusters T-shirt, stopping at my brunette bedhead and sighing.

“Child, please go get your father. And don’t keep me waiting.”

All bets are off now that she’s been condescending. Above all things, I hate when someone assumes I’m insignificant. Too young or poor to matter.

“My father is sleeping off another bender, lady. What can I do for you?” I smile with teeth. “And I’m eighteen. Not a child. Old enough to work two jobs and one side hustle to feed these various-sized monsters behind me. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get them dressed and out the door for daycare and school.”

A pause, accompanied by a flick of her eyebrow. “I don’t excuse you.”

“You must be really important to somebody. But that somebody isn’t me.”

“You’re kind of a hothead, aren’t you?”

I shrug. “Runs in the family.”

The woman hums in her throat, eyeing me with new interest. “Are you a gambler, as well?” she asks. “Speaking of what runs in the family.”

I’m hit by a blast of awareness. If I hadn’t been too distracted by the family’s morning routine, I would have realized who I was speaking to. Or at least why she was on my doorstep. “My father owes you money, doesn’t he?”

“A very large sum of money.”

I swallow hard. “How large?”

She runs her gaze along the sagging eaves. “This house wouldn’t cover it.”

Panic is beginning to settle in my middle. This isn’t the first time someone has come to the door looking for money that my father has already gambled away. But last time, my mother was still around to handle it. She’s not here anymore. I woke up one morning to find all of her belongings missing and a note beneath an empty glass of orange juice on the kitchen table. It simply read, “sorry.”

Imagine leaving five kids behind and drinking the last of the orange juice.

There are layers of selfishness to my parents I will never understand—and I don’t have time to try since I’ve taken on both of their roles in the house.

“I don’t have the money to pay you,” I say. “I can just about pay the mortgage and keep clothes on everyone’s backs.”

She squints her eyes in mock sympathy. “That’s hardly my problem, is it?”

Maybe it’s the chaotic morning or the fact that my impromptu visitor is going to make me late for my shift driving Uber…or maybe it’s just this woman’s vulture-like personality, but now I’m getting irritated. “God, are there any decent adults left out there?” I cross my arms and lean on the doorframe. “Because coming from the perspective of someone who has been answering to angry grownups my whole life, you all seem to fall into one of two categories. Either you’re extremely entitled. Or you’re bitter, disappointed with the way your life turned out and blaming it on my generation.”

Not a flinch. “What does this have to do with the money you owe me?”

I stare back at her blankly. “I’m never going to be like you. Or them. I’m not going to let life shove me into one of those categories.” I realize I’m raging at someone who doesn’t really care what I have to say, making this a waste of time. “I don’t have your money,” I finish, reaching for the door to close it, mentally sorting through the cabinets for the Cheerios. Do we have any? I don’t—

“Wait.”

“Nah.”

The woman releases a short, rusty laugh. “Okay, I must admit. Reluctantly, I find you very interesting, Meg.”

My body jolts slightly in surprise. “How…do you know my name?”

Instead of answering, she furrows her brow as she studies me. A lot closer than before. “Before we go any further, I need you to understand something.”

“Who said we were going any further?”

“I’m Etta Krop. And Meg, I’m not someone you disrespect,” she says, her voice suddenly very quiet. Her brown eyes sharpen and the coldest shiver I’ve ever experienced tracks down my spine. Maybe I’m imagining things, but I swear, I can see the promise of misery and death in those eyes. She’s the kind of person who delivers those things, swiftly and without remorse. She communicates all of that to me in the space of a few seconds.

Whispers are beginning to come back to me. Etta Krop. I’ve heard her name around town, only spoken in hushed and fearful tones. At night, I work a shift cleaning commercial spaces and one of them is a lawyer’s office. One evening, as I was mopping the floor, something told me to remove one of my headphones and I overheard a phone call from one of the lawyers who’d stayed late. He was speaking to law enforcement about the lack of proof they’d been able to gather on a local crime syndicate. One that operates illegal gambling and drug operations that stretch across the entire state.

Now, I recall some of the words he used to describe this woman standing in front of me. Cold. Untouchable. Ruthless.

I’ve probably only guaranteed my own death. Me and my big mouth.

I can’t let anything happen to me, though. I’m all my siblings have in the world.

“You’re not someone I disrespect,” I say, tightly. “Got it.”

“Good.” She flashes a row of white teeth. “Now, if you’re ready to listen, I have a proposition for you. It could work out nicely for the both of us.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?” Thankfully, Etta seems more amused by that observation than anything. “I find your…passion and bravery rather unique. You’ve obviously had a rough hand of cards dealt to you, but it’s only made your spirit stronger. As someone who had a similar upbringing, I admire that.”

“Cheerios!” bellows my youngest brother, shaking the rafters.

“I don’t even think we have Cheerios,” I say to Etta, uselessly. “I appreciate the compliments, but—”

“Against my better judgment, I’m going to offer you a way out of this.”

“A way out of what?”

“Oh, I didn’t mention?” She grins and paces forward a step, so I must tip my head back to keep eye contact. “If your father doesn’t pay me the one hundred thousand dollars he owes me, with interest, I’ll burn your motherfucking house down. With all of you inside of it.”

“Oh,” I breathe, winded, locking my knees straight so she won’t see them trembling. “And what was this way out you mentioned?”

“I don’t usually make house calls of this nature. I’m too important. I have someone who does it for me. His name is Koen.” She allows me to see some of her frustration. “He’s decided out of the blue to take some time off. But I need him back to work, you see. Now. He’s very…valuable to my operation. But I can’t seem to convince him to return. No amount of money or threats have done the trick.” She looks me over one more time and nods. “That’s your job. Get Koen back to work.”

“What? But I’m busy! And…how?”

“Figure it out. But complete the task without telling him I sent you,” she enunciates, taking a phone out of her suit pocket and tapping on the screen. “I’m texting you his private address. I wouldn’t waste any time. I’m giving you a week, Meg.”

“How do you have my phone number?”

“I know everything .” She takes a moment to impress that knowledge on me with an icy stare, then begins to back away toward the street. “Better call your Uber partner and let her know you won’t be there for your shift.”

My legs are jelly by the time Etta disappears into the back of a black Rolls-Royce at the end of my street. My phone vibrates in the waistband of my bike shorts, and I extricate it with numb fingers, staring down at the words on the screen, which are nothing more than an address. But it’s a nice address, a few towns over, right on the ocean.

“Cheerios! Cheerios!” everyone is chanting now, blissfully unaware that our fragile world could crumble around us if I don’t make this woman happy.

Good thing I don’t know how to fail.