CHAPTER 2 — The Envelope

There were people who came home after work and made proper dinners. Vegetables and protein. Something that required at least one pan.

Irene came home after a double shift and boiled water.

By the time the kettle clicked off, she'd already changed into an old T-shirt that had survived enough washes to become emotionally attached to her.

She cracked open a packet of instant noodles. Chicken flavor. Or something that had met a chicken once in passing.

She poured the noodles into the pot. The seasoning packet followed. Dinner was officially underway.

Mr. Mustard surfaced from his evening patrol as if he'd heard the familiar sound of cheap sodium hitting boiling water.

"Don't judge me."

He blinked.

"You eat pellets."

Then her phone started vibrating across the counter.

Blythe.

Irene answered with the phone balanced between her shoulder and ear while stirring noodles.

"Hi."

"So." That was Blythe's entire greeting. Whenever she opened with so, trouble usually followed.

"What happened?"

"We're going out."

"We are?"

"We are."

"I don't remember agreeing."

"You hadn't answered yet."

Irene smiled despite herself.

"I'm in pajamas. It's nine forty-five."

"And?"

"I worked two jobs."

"And?"

"I've been awake since five-forty-five, Blythe."

"And?"

Irene laughed. "What is this even about?"

"The gang's meeting at O'Malley's."

"The gang?"

"The coffee shop people." Blythe lowered her voice dramatically. "And there's a new bartender."

"I don't care."

"You should."

"I really shouldn't."

"I think he's one of those…you know…wolf people."

Irene stopped stirring. "...What?"

"I think he's a werewolf."

"Blythe."

"I'm serious."

"No, you're not."

"He has the jaw."

"The... jaw?"

"You know, the werewolf jaw."

Irene pinched the bridge of her nose. "I hate to break this to you, but that's just called being handsome."

"No."

"It absolutely is."

"He has this whole..." Blythe searched for the word. "Predatory thing."

"So does my landlord when rent's due."

"This is different."

"How?"

"He looks like he could throw me over his shoulder. And I'd allow it, Irene."

"I know you would."

"He has forearms."

"Most people do, Blythe."

"Not like these."

Irene laughed again. "You are unbelievable."

"I know. He also hasn't smiled once."

"So?"

"So mysterious." Blythe let a couple of seconds pass. "So come with us."

"I'm really tired."

"We'll buy your first beer."

"No."

"Two beers and some fries."

"No. I already made dinner."

"What dinner?"

"...Noodles."

Silence.

"Instant?"

"...Maybe."

"You've committed to this lifestyle, Irene. Look, I'll buy you a burger."

"I already made noodles."

"Irene. I love you and I worry about you. So come."

Irene looked at the tiny pot bubbling on the stove. Looked at the clock.

"I'm really too tired."

Blythe sighed. "Night, Irene."

"Night."

The apartment became quiet again. Only the bubbling pot and the gentle hum of Mr. Mustard's filter filled the room.

She poured the noodles into her favorite chipped bowl. Favorite, mostly because it hadn't broken yet.

She ate standing at the counter. When the bowl was empty, she rinsed it. Then her eyes drifted toward the envelope. Still there and still annoyingly mysterious.

"Fine."

Mr. Mustard watched without comment.

"I'll prove it's junk."

She opened the kitchen drawer. No letter opener because that would've required someone in her family to receive enough important mail to justify owning one.

She considered a knife. Too much effort. Instead, she grabbed a fork.

Good enough.

The envelope opened, and inside was a single sheet of paper. It was white and the message was typed. There was no company logo so it wasn’t another bill she needed to pay.

But there was no address and no signature. And it was nothing fancy. Just words.

She started reading.

You are being considered for a position.

Candidate requirements:

Clean living.

No criminal record.

No active romantic relationship.

Capable of maintaining complete discretion.

Compensation upon contract signing.

Further details available upon acceptance.

If interested, contact the number below within seventy-two hours.

That was it. There was no explanation. No job title. No clue what kind of person wrote letters like they were court summons.

She read it again. Then a third time. Then her first thought was simple.

This had to be a scam. Obviously.

Her second thought arrived a few seconds later.

Whoever wrote this knew exactly how much her rent was. They knew Bella's school. They knew Amanda's rehab center. Not just a rehab center. The expensive one Amanda had insisted on.

They didn't guess; they absolutely researched her. Or, deeply unsettling enough, stalked her.

She looked toward the window even though all she could see was the brick wall of the neighboring building.

She looked back at the letter.

This could solve her three months' rent, Bella's tuition, and Amanda's rehab.

She tried to remember the last time she'd had money left over after paying bills. She couldn't.

She folded the page carefully and laid it back on the counter.

"Definitely a scam."

Mr. Mustard bit into a piece of lettuce.

"I'm not calling."

Crunch.

"They probably harvest kidneys."

Crunch.

"I like both of mine."

Crunch.

"I don't even know if kidneys sell for much."

Mr. Mustard continued eating.

"I appreciate your input."

Later, Irene washed her bowl, brushed her hair, and walked back to the counter. Then she looked at the letter again.

"No."

She picked it up.

"If they know where I live, that's creepy."

She set it back down.

"If they know my finances, that's creepier."

She paced once across the apartment.

"Maybe it's a pyramid scheme. Or a cult."

She paused.

"...Can cults afford rehab?"

Mr. Mustard offered nothing.

"I feel like they probably can't."

She talked herself through every reason not to call. It was too dangerous, too strange, and too convenient. No legitimate employer hired people through anonymous envelopes.

Normal jobs posted online. Normal jobs had interviews. Normal jobs didn't know your mother's medical bills.

Twenty minutes later, she'd convinced herself. She picked up the envelope, walked to the trash can, and dropped it in.

Problem solved.

She brushed her teeth. Turned off the kitchen light. Climbed into bed. Pulled the blanket over herself. And closed her eyes.

Then one minute passed by. Then two minutes. Then three…

"...Dammit."

Irene threw the blanket back and walked into the kitchen barefoot. She opened the trash can, reached inside, and pulled the envelope back out. She then smoothed the wrinkles against the counter with the palm of her hand.

She slid the envelope underneath her phone. Not because she was going to call. Absolutely not.

Just...so she wouldn't lose the number.