The first time I killed a man with a pie, it was an accident.
But only the first.
That was a lot of pies ago, and this is most definitely the on-purpose kind.
It’s not fancy, but it doesn’t have to be. It’s just a buttery Oreo-crumb crust filled with rich peanut butter mousse, drizzled with salted chocolate ganache and dusted with crushed peanut brittle.
Okay, maybe it’s a little fancy.
I can’t help it.
The pie is tucked into a custom wooden carrier with Pie Girl burned in a looping script above a silhouette of a steaming pie. The box is absolutely adorable, received on barter at last year’s farmers’ market, and its elderly maker would probably die if he knew where I was bringing it.
Which he never will.
No one knows I’m here, parked in my dad’s old truck across the street from the Sigma Kap house, which is less because I’m stealthy and more because I’ve gotten used to not telling people what I’m doing. Seven years of living alone will do that to a person.
I perk up as the front door opens and two guys come out, laughing and shoving each other, both laden with bulging gym bags and protein shakes. They drop onto the sagging front steps, toss their bags to the ground, and simultaneously pull out their phones like some sort of modern-day synchronized dance act.
Neither is the one I’m after.
I check the dashboard clock and swallow a curse. Tomorrow starts the farmers’ market season, and I’ll be baking all night if these piss-gibbons don’t leave soon.
Plus I don’t want the peanut butter mousse to get too soft.
I’m not strictly opposed to marching up the steps between them, but I’d prefer not to. Pie has a way of making people social, and this isn’t a pie I want people interested in.
The booming thump of bass from an approaching car vibrates the truck’s windows as the two guys stand and gather their things. Finally.
They climb into the car, and it’s all I can do not to fly out of the truck. Now that it’s go time, my heart is racing and I feel exposed. So instead of rushing, I take five minutes to scroll through the articles I have saved on my phone.
Kevin Beechum: It Wasn’t Rape
Victim Impact Statement Leaves Court in Tears
Light Sentence for Turnbridge Baseball Star Angers Many
Slap on the Wrist for Turnbridge Baseball Hero
Kevin Beechum ‘Thrilled’ With Outcome, Says Justice Served
Judge’s Ruling Sparks Outrage
Anna Hargrave Breaks Silence: Light Sentence a Sign of ‘Dangerous Things to Come’
Kevin Beechum deserves this pie.
I hop out of the truck and smooth the floral fabric of my dress. It’s one of my Nana Fleur’s creations, full skirted and fitted at the waist, stitched together with her own version of the Ellery family magic, a special blend of self-confidence and courage sewn into each seam. I can practically feel the threads humming with it as I heft the pie box by its pink strap and set off toward the house.
For a split second, I consider leaving the pie on the Welcome Bitches doormat, but I don’t—for two reasons. First, I’m not giving up the box.
I ring the doorbell.
Second, I want him to know who it’s from.
The door opens to reveal Kevin Beechum, bare-chested and sleepy-eyed the pungent funk of cannabis wafting out around him.
Perfect.
I paste a cheery smile on my face and tilt the box so he can see the logo on top. “Hi, I’m Daisy, the Pie Girl. You were entered into a drawing for a free pie, and I’m pleased to say you’ve won.”
He scratches at his naked chest. “Seriously? I don’t remember entering anything like that.”
I up the wattage of the smile. “Seriously. It’s a weekly promotion, and anyone could’ve put your name in. It’s like having a secret admirer in pie form.”
He grins that lazy grin that has charmed so many lawyers and reporters. “Sweet. What kind?”
I slide the lid off so he can see. “Peanut butter and chocolate.”
“Oh fuck yeah,” he says. “That’s my favorite.”
I want to say I know, but I don’t. It was a detail I’d picked up while researching him, part of a Meet the Team Q&A the campus paper did. Favorite candy: Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. It was too easy.
“It’s a new recipe,” I say, and even though I’ve made peanut butter chocolate pie a hundred times, it’s not a lie. This particular version is new. “If you want to try it now, I’d love to hear what you think.”
“Sure, come on in.” He steps back to let me in and leers as I step through. I feel his eyes do that thing, the up-and-down assessment like my body is a racehorse he might bet on.
I swallow my disgust and keep smiling. After all, guys are always telling us to smile. Truth is, they should be really nervous when we do.
Every surface of the kitchen has been taken over by piles of crusty dishes and empty beer cans, so I clear a place on the scratched table. He crowds me as I pull the pie out of the box. I should be scared of him, but I’m not, even as he presses up against my back. The urge to elbow him in the balls is real, though.
“Do you have a knife? I’ll cut you a slice.” I keep my voice flirty and light, airy as my dress.
“Maybe that isn’t what I want a slice of anymore.” His breath is fetid against my ear. I roll my eyes. This fucker has no idea.
With a giggle, I spin away from him. My skirt twirls around my legs. A dance of death.
“Maybe it’s what you want a slice of first.” I wink at him, and his lips stretch into a lecherous grin. I want to slap it off, but I don’t. My eyes land on a battered knife block that’s sure to be cultivating more bacteria than a CDC research lab. Knife blocks are utterly disgusting, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Besides, it’s not like I’m eating any of the pie.
“I like this housewife routine,” he says, leaning on the table and letting his eyes wander. “Seriously. Are there more of you? You do parties?”
I pluck a water-spotted chef’s knife from the block, test its edge against my thumb. Duller than the dude in front of me.
No matter.
“It’s just little old me,” I say. I slide the knife into the pie, and the layers of mousse and crust give way easily beneath the wide blade.
“That’s too bad.”
“Probably for the best.” I hold the slice of pie out, the cookie crust firm enough to support the slice without a plate.
“That looks amazing,” he says.
“It’s to die for.”
He doesn’t take the slice from me or get a plate, simply leans in and bites it in half. Crumbs rain down onto the floor as he chews.
I hold my breath, waiting to see if the effect is immediate. These pies are tricky sometimes.
He groans around the mouthful of chocolate and peanut butter, and his blue eyes roll upward. “Holy shit,” he says after swallowing. “That’s fucking bomb.”
He staggers to the fridge and pulls out a half-empty gallon of milk and pops the top. He chugs it, drops it on the table near the pie, and rifles around in a drawer until he finds a fork.
“Definitely a cheat day,” he says. I want to take a picture of him, standing there half-naked with a pie in one hand and a fork in the other, milk dotting his upper lip. A souvenir of sorts. But I don’t. I never do.
He eats like he’s starving, but three-quarters of the way through the small pie, he starts to slow. “The pie coma is real.” He drops into a chair at the table and stabs another bite. “But it’s like I have to finish it.”
“I’m glad you like it,” I say, and some part of me even means it. At its core, baking pie is about making people happy. The world can be going to complete shit, but a freshly baked pie is a reprieve, however slight. Even these pies.
“I’m gonna need to nap for like a week,” he says. “I thought sugar was supposed to make you hyper. I feel like I could die, but in a good way. Do you have a store or something where I can get more of these?”
His words are slow and slurring, and I know it’s almost time. I say, “This was one of a kind.”
“You could make a fortune on that.” He nods drunkenly. “A fortune.”
That’s the irony of these pies. The ends are usually, although not always, like this: peaceful and happy and satiated.
The very opposite of what is deserved.
“Would you like to go lie down?” I ask.
“Mm-hmm.”
I take his arm and guide him up from the table. He leans into me, mumbling incoherently, as I guide him to the living room. I don’t like leaving them in kitchens. Dining rooms are okay, beds and bathrooms too, but kitchens are sacred. Even the gross ones.
He collapses onto the sofa like a felled tree. His breathing is shallow now, but he is content.
I kneel down beside him. He doesn’t deserve content.
“Kevin,” I say. “Kevin, try to look at me.”
His eyes flutter open, find mine.
“That’s it. Pay attention. Your heartbeat is slowing down now. That’s from the pie.” His face contorts in fear, but I hold a hand up. “No, shh, there’s nothing you can do. Just relax into it. But the pie, Kevin—you weren’t a random winner. This is important. It was a special pie, just for you. Courtesy of Anna Hargrave.”
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