Chapter 3

Angela had no idea that the only thing I loved was the money Joseph wired to my bank account.

The get-together ended some time after midnight.

After I walked Jeannie to her car, I stood in the parking lot by the club entrance and took out my phone. I sent Joseph a text.

"Hi, Joseph. I was insulted twice in front of everyone today and kicked on the calf twice.

"I was also called a 'medical consumable' and suffered emotional abuse. That'll be 300 thousand dollars. As usual, wire it to my account."

In under a minute, I saw the bank notification on my phone: "You've received a transfer of 300,000 dollars."

I leaned against one of the parking lot pillars, chuckling as I stared at the figure on my phone screen. So what if I was a walking tranquilizer? I was consumable for 300 thousand dollars each time. No job in the world paid better than this.

Alas, I knew this job was coming to an end. Joseph had texted me last week.

"Lately, she's been refusing her medication. She stays cooped up in her office with videos of Ian all afternoon. Be on your guard. Ian's death anniversary is coming up."

The sky drizzled on the day of Ian's death anniversary.

Jeannie didn't show up at work. I spent the better part of the morning waiting for her at the company, only to be greeted with radio silence on her end. I called her thrice, but she didn't pick up.

Emma texted me, informing me Jeannie had left for the cemetery early that morning. She'd gone alone and didn't bring a driver.

I grabbed an umbrella and hurried to the cemetery, running the charges in my head on the way. I'd be earning extra for comforting Jeannie during a high-intensity emotional episode at the cemetery, and on top of that, I'd get a nice tip for having to do it in the rain.

If she were to lash out in front of Ian's grave, I'd earn three times my salary.

Jeannie was already perched on the steps of Ian's grave when I arrived. At her feet lay three empty whisky bottles.

She didn't have an umbrella, and her hair clung to her face in wet strands. She was holding a half-finished bottle of liquor.

Ian was wearing a white shirt in his memorial photo, his smile dazzling and pleasant. I looked a lot like him from the side.

Upon hearing my footsteps, Jeannie turned to look at me with bloodshot eyes. She reached for me, her voice rough as sandpaper. "You've come, Ian."

My heart sank. Oh, no. She'd mistaken me for Ian.

I hurried over to help her up, but she pounced on me. She wrapped her arms so tightly around me, it was as if she wanted to mold all of me into her. Tears mixed with rainwater soaked through my shirt.

"I've missed you so much. Why did you leave me? I'm sorry. I promise I'll never fight with you again. Please come back."

I said nothing. I only rubbed her back gently, just as I did every time she acted up. I counted the seconds and waited for her to calm down.

By the 12th second, she suddenly stiffened. She shoved me away so forcefully that my back hit the gravestone. I gasped as my lower back hit the sharp corner of the gravestone.

The unopened bottle of whisky she'd brought tumbled to the ground and shattered. The glass fragments sliced my forearm, and blood immediately beaded from the cuts.

"You're not him." Jeannie stared, her unfocused gaze sharpening and flashing with disgust. "Do you think so highly of yourself, Gregory? Do you think you could hug me like Ian used to?"

I gripped the gravestone for support and rose to my feet. Drops of blood slid down my forearm and dripped into the muddy puddles on the cemetery ground.

I wasn't angry, really. I did the math in my head.

That was 300 thousand dollars for comforting Jeannie during her outburst at the cemetery, 200 thousand dollars for sustaining a work injury after she pushed me and I hit the gravestone, and 500 thousand dollars for getting cuts on my arm from broken glass.

I was getting paid a million dollars with little to no fuss.

I fixed Jeannie with a mild stare, still wearing a professional smile. "I'll send you back to the office, Ms. Gray."

She ignored me and stood up on her own, only to stagger down the cemetery slope without sparing me a backward glance.

I watched her leave in her car, and only then did I fish out my phone to send Joseph a text. "I comforted Jeannie at the cemetery today, Joseph. She pushed me, and my arm will require stitches. That'll be a million dollars. Also, she appears to be delusional."

Less than five minutes after I'd sent the text, a five-million-dollar wire came in.

Joseph's call followed shortly after. He sounded tired on the other end of the line. "I've paid you the balance, Gregory. Jeannie's condition should improve once Ian's death anniversary is over. Your services are no longer required."