Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
The stoplight ahead turns yellow. I tap the brake, and the car downshifts with a roar that sounds like Satan gargling gravel. The elderly couple in the Buick beside me visibly flinch. A kid on a BMX bike passing through the intersection is so startled he drops his Big Gulp, which explodes on impact with the asphalt like a sugary IED.
I wave at him. A small, regal gesture. The Queen acknowledging her subjects. Princess Kate visiting a children’s hospital. Not a woman sweating through her six-dollar cardigan from Goodwill, wondering if the brakes will still function when she hits the steep descent on Orchard Avenue, calculating how much dignity she’ll sacrifice by pulling over to pee behind the abandoned roller rink.
The light changes. I accelerate with what I think is reasonable pressure. The car disagrees and launches forward with a noise that could wake the dead in the cemetery three towns over.
“Fuck!” I gasp as my head snaps back against the headrest.
Every pothole in this neglected infrastructure feels personal, like the road is deliberately trying to rearrange my internal organs. The suspension on this thing is so stiff it’s like sitting on a concrete bench during an earthquake.
I pass the town limits sign—RIVERVIEW: WHERE GOOD PEOPLE MAKE GREAT NEIGHBORS—and start the climb up toward the hills where the mansions perch like vultures overlooking their domain. The engine doesn’t even strain; it just keeps purring, almost disappointed at the lack of challenge.
It’s only when I hit the straightaway that I realize I’ve been clenching my jaw so hard my teeth might have fused together. My shoulders have migrated somewhere near my ears. My right foot is cramping from hovering nervously over the brake pedal.
But I’m moving. The car hasn’t wrapped itself around a telephone pole. No smoke billows from under the hood. The engine hasn’t exploded in a cinematic fireball that would make Michael Bay weep with joy.
I got this.
Probably.
The road narrows as I climb higher, a ribbon of black unfurling between increasingly expensive real estate. McMansions give way to actual mansions—the kind with names instead of addresses. The kind where the garage is bigger than my entire apartment. Former apartment. Whatever.
I have to rely on the navigation map because while everyone in town can spot the pretentious mansion crowning the hill, locating the actual driveway proves challenging. Jeez, it’s as if he deliberately made his place hard to access. He likely enjoys forcing people to struggle for the honor of being in his company.
“Sei quasi arrivata,” the car says.
I round a curve and suddenly there they are: wrought iron gates standing at least twelve feet tall, all scrollwork and pointed finials, like a Victorian nightmare given architectural form. They’re attached to stone pillars that look like they’ve been there since the Civil War but are probably brand new and artificially weathered by some artisan who charges by the manufactured imperfection.
“Sei arrivata a destinazione.”
The gates begin to swing open as I approach.
I didn’t press anything. No keypad. No call box. No intercom asking for my name, blood type, and maternal grandmother’s favorite color.
They just... open. Like they’ve been expecting me. Like the car has some kind of signal built in. Or maybe there are cameras tracking my approach. Either way, it’s less convenient than creepy.
I drive through without slowing, but something in my chest tightens. The soft click of the gates closing behind me feels final, like I’ve just agreed to something I don’t fully understand.
The driveway stretches ahead, winding through what must be at least five acres of pristine woodland. Everything is immaculate—not a fallen branch, not a weed, not a single leaf out of place. It’s the kind of property that requires a full-time staff just to maintain the illusion that nature has agreed to behave itself.
The silence is what gets me. No birdsong. No rustling leaves. Just the purr of the engine and my own heartbeat. Even the tires seem to whisper rather than hum against the perfectly smooth pavement.
I’m starting to relax, just a little, when I spot it: a small sign nestled among the landscaping.
“Speed Limit 6 MPH”
Not five. Not ten. Six.
I crane my neck, double-checking in the rearview mirror. Yep. Six miles per hour. Who does that? What kind of control-freak psychopath sets a speed limit at six miles per hour?
I snort, but ease off the gas anyway. The car lurches slightly, unhappy with such restraint. The speedometer is digital, precise down to the decimal point. I’m going 9.8 mph. Still too fast for His Royal Specificity.
I tap the brake, trying to hit exactly six. The car bucks like an irritated thoroughbred, clearly offended by this undignified crawl. 7.4... 6.9... 6.2...
My eyes flick to the passenger seat where those two black notebooks sit. The Sistema di Demerito. The reward structure.
A cold feeling spreads through my stomach.