This Girl's a Killer: A Novel
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Synopsis
For readers of Finlay Donovan is Killing It and The Bandit Queens comes a bright and biting thriller following Cordelia Black, a best friend, a businesswoman, and, in her spare time, a killer of bad men.
Ask Cordelia Black why she did it. The answer will always be: He had it coming.
Cordelia Black loves exactly three things: Her chosen family, her hairdresser (worth every penny plus tip), and killing bad men.
By day she's an ambitious pharma rep with a flawless reputation and designer wardrobe. By night, she culls South Louisiana of unscrupulous men—monsters who think they've evaded justice, until they meet her. Sure, the evening news may have started throwing around phrases like "serial killer," but Cordelia knows that's absurd. She's not a killer, she is simply karma. And being karma requires complete and utter control.
But when Cordelia discovers a flaw in her perfectly designed system for eliminating monsters, pressure heightens. And it only intensifies when her best friend starts dating a man Cordelia isn't sure is a good person. Someone who might just unravel everything she has worked for.
Soon enough Cordelia has to come face to face with the choices she's made. The good, the bad, and the murderous. Both her family, and her freedom, depend on it.
Release date: September 10, 2024
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
Print pages: 400
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This Girl's a Killer: A Novel
Emma C. Wells
Nothing stains like red frosting—not even blood. The last thing I needed was the sugary red concoction smeared across the tan leather of my car’s interior. But love makes us crazy, which was the only explanation for why I zoomed toward Oak Road Middle, making up for lost time by going double the posted twenty-miles-per-hour speed limit with thirty rainbow cupcakes balanced precariously in the passenger seat.
I hit a pothole, and the plastic clamshell lid of the bakery box popped open for the fourth time. I reached over with one hand and clamped it closed. Again. It was a risky game I was playing, but if anyone understood that middle school was its own circle of hell, it was me. If having rainbow cupcakes to share with her class the week of her birthday made my goddaughter’s sixth-grade experience even a bit better, well, she would have the damn cupcakes.
My phone rang through my car’s speakers, right as I wheeled into the school’s long driveway. I was tempted to ignore it, but Diane’s name appeared across the screen on my dash. While I was good at many things, I’d never been good at ignoring my best friend. Besides. She’d text if I didn’t answer—and keep texting until I responded.
I pressed the button on my steering wheel. “Hey, you.”
“Hey yourself. Did you remember the cupcakes?”
Like I’d forget. Being Sugar’s godmother was the most important role in my life.
Well. One of the most important roles. There was the other thing—that additional role I filled—necessary as it was violent. But these two parts of myself were so tangled together that trying to separate them was absurd. Besides, Sugar and Diane were at the center of both. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for my best friend and her daughter. Nothing I hadn’t done.
I rolled my eyes. “Are you serious?”
“I know, I know,” Diane said. “You’d never forget Samantha. I also know you hate last-minute changes to your schedule. I wouldn’t have asked, but there’s an audit here because the hospital overspent on a stupid waste incinerator and—”
“Diane.” Best to interrupt her before she got started on work drama. She could talk about Mercy Hospital’s audit for an hour.
She plunged ahead as if she hadn’t heard me. “And my boss is being a real pain so I can’t leave. And—”
I spoke louder. “Diane. It’s fine. Really.”
“You’re sure?” She paused, and the background sounds of the Mercy Hospital accounting department filled the car. “Thanks again, Cor. Truly.”
“No worries. Happy to do it.” My voice was airy—the opposite of how I felt. “I’m delivering them now.”
“Oh.” Diane’s answer was a single syllable, but the smirk, clear in her tone, spoke volumes.
“Oh, what?” I asked.
“Nothing. I’m surprised
is all.”
“Surprised about?”
“Is Cordelia Black—Queen of the Clock, Punctual Princess—running late? Because Samantha’s afternoon break started fifteen minutes ago and—”
“Nine minutes,” I interrupted, flipping on my blinker and pulling into the school’s parking lot. “Sugar-Bug’s break started nine minutes ago, not fifteen, thank you very much. And it’s not my fault, okay? My last meeting ran long, then there was this jerk cop who crashed into me at the bakery. He knocked me off my heels and—you know what? Why am I explaining this? I need to find a parking spot.”
“Wait, don’t freak out.” Diane laughed. “I’m teasing.”
“Who’s freaking out? I’m not freaking out.” I wasn’t. Not on Diane—I could never. True, getting her cupcake 9-1-1 text while tethering a monster to a table wasn’t ideal, but if my ride-or-die needed me, I was happy to help. Especially with Sugar-Bug. If I seemed a tiny bit stressed, it was because the jerk at the bakery had thrown me behind schedule and now every passing minute felt like a personal insult.
“If you say so,” Diane said, and there it was again. The smirk. “I was thinking…why don’t you come over after work? Your date with the Fumble hunk is tonight, right? Bring some wine and get ready at my house. I’ll do your hair—just like our college days.” Diane and I had been thrown together by chance over a decade ago—roommates in the freshman art-major dorms at LSU. Though we’d both changed our paths by graduation, we’d remained inseparable.
“You don’t know he’s a hunk,” I reminded her. “No photos on Fumble, remember? It’s their whole stupid schtick.”
“Yeah, yeah. But you don’t know he’s not a hunk,” she countered. “Would it kill you to hope for the best? To be a little excited?”
“What makes you think I’m not excited?” I wasn’t excited. At all. I’d only signed up for Fumble Online Dating because Diane had been way too eager to create my profile. Honestly, I’d expected her to forget about it and move on to the next shiny new dating trend and I’d be off the hook. No such luck; my dating profile had become her latest hyperfixation.
She snorted. “Please. I can read you like a book, even through the phone. You’re a terrible liar. Come over, okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.” I spied an open parking space a few rows over. Another vehicle was circling the lot. “Now I really have to go.” I stomped my Louboutin to
the gas. This spot was mine.
“Wait! I have something else to tell you, but…I guess you can find out tonight.”
“Sounds goo—fuck!” An orange tabby darted in front of my car. I slammed on the brakes, causing the pastry box to pop open. It slid forward in the passenger seat. My arm shot out and smashed the lid down, smearing rainbow icing against the clear plastic. “Fuck,” I repeated, this time softly. At least I’d kept them from flying onto the floorboard.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Peachy.” I frowned. Our original agreement was I’d place the cupcake order, and Diane would handle pickup and delivery. The last-minute change of plans shouldn’t have been a big deal. Considering everything else I’d accomplished that morning, delivering an order of cupcakes wasn’t difficult. So what if I’d had to rush things along in my workshop? I built buffers into my schedule for just such an occasion. Diane liked to joke that schedules were my entire personality, and she wasn’t exactly wrong.
Yet here I was—running late with a carton of trashed cupcakes that were more smeared finger paint than gourmet rainbows.
“Okay. If you say so.” Diane sounded unbothered as ever. “See you tonight. And thanks again,”
“Sure.” I ended the call. Three feet in front of my car, the orange cat sat on its haunches, staring at me as he dragged his tongue over his patchy fur.
I tooted the horn. “Move it, roadkill!”
The cat never blinked as he shot his hind leg into the air, and went to work on his nether regions. Yards away, a tan SUV slid into my parking space.
Because of course it did.
I clenched and unclenched my grip on the steering wheel. There was no point in getting worked up over being a few minutes late; everything was fine.
It was fine that Sugar’s birthday cupcakes, special ordered from the best bakery in town three months ago, were garbage. No big deal.
And so what if, thanks to an orange fleabag, my only parking option was the overflow lot near the athletic fields. Did it really matter that, in these heels,
that parking lot might as well have been miles away? Or that I was now a full—I glanced at my phone; oh god—twenty minutes behind schedule. I hoofed it toward the main building.
It. Was. Fine.
The heel of my Louboutin snagged a crack in the sidewalk, pitching me forward. I steadied myself, somehow hanging on to the cupcakes—not that it mattered. They couldn’t have looked worse.
How did Diane—who was never on time—live this way? Because I was lying to myself—it was not fine. It was horrible.
Sweat had collected in my armpits and between my breasts by the time I pushed through the school’s entrance, signed in at the office, and hurried to Sugar-Bug’s classroom. Mr. Lopez saw me coming through the window in the classroom door and pushed it open before I could knock. He wore his signature expression: lips pursed, eyes twinkling (yes, twinkling; seriously, I’d seen diamonds with less sparkle).
With his mop of black waves framing his chiseled face, Sugar’s teacher would’ve been more at home on a soap opera than leading a sixth-grade class. Jesus. No wonder most of the moms and some of the dads had crushes on him.
“Sorry I’m late.” I thrust the oversized box into Mr. Lopez’s waiting arms.
He shrugged. “No worries. The closer to final bell I can wait before giving them sweets, the better.” Mr. Lopez paused and looked down at the clear box. “Uh…did something happen? I mean, they’re kind of…”
“What? Are they not good enough?” I snapped, immediately regretting it, because Mr. Lopez was being nice. What he clearly wanted to ask was, What the hell did you do to these things?
It would’ve been a fair question.
“Sorry.” I glanced down and shook my head. “Let me start again.” My fingertips rested on the teacher’s arm as I forced a friendlier tone. “What I mean is, there was this whole thing with this orange cat and slamming on brakes and—you know what? Let’s just say, it’s been an adventure.” I smiled. “Hopefully these are still okay to give to the kids?”
“Are you kidding? I could pass around a tub of frosting, and they’d love it. Don’t even worry about it.” Mr. Lopez chuckled. “Oh, before I forget: Samantha could use a little extra time with prealgebra. Perhaps a tutor?”
I nodded. “I’ll make sure it happens.”
“Good, good.” With that, he took the cupcakes into the classroom. I checked my phone. There was no time to stick around and gauge Sugar’s reaction to her ruined birthday treat. Poor thing. I’d make it up to her later. Another video game should do the trick. After all, it was Sugar’s world; we were just living in it.
I flew down the stairs and out the door, mentally calculating the best route for making up lost time, as I artfully avoided sidewalk cracks. Even with the buffers built into my schedule, thanks to both the asshole at the bakery and the marmalade menace in the parking lot, I was cutting it too close for comfort. Showing up late was not a good look—and this doctor had the potential to be a profitable business partner.
The Jimmy Choos I planned to buy with the commission check from this pharmaceutical sale were poetic—navy silk wrapped in beaded silver accents that, in certain lighting, twinkled like stars in the sky. I wasn’t religious, but they spoke to me on a spiritual level.
I flung open the car door and sank into the driver’s seat, pressing the start button. The engine roared to life, blasting delicious air-conditioning, just as my phone rang through the car’s Bluetooth. This time, however, it wasn’t Diane on the other end. It was my boss.
I reversed out of the parking spot, clearing my throat before I answered the call. In control. Perfect as always. “This is Cordelia.”
My boss’s tone was stilted. “Good. You answered.”
“Margery.” I worked to sound upbeat—not an easy task at the moment, but the last thing I needed was Margery on my case. “You know I always answer. What’s up?”
“Your afternoon meetings are cancelled,” she said.
“What?” I punched the brakes, my car sliding to an abrupt stop in the middle of the school driveway. This day kept getting better. “You know how I feel about changing my schedule. I’m the senior salesperson with a trusted track record, and if you think—”
“Cordelia, save it. This isn’t about trust.” Her annoyance was clear, and I could see her in my mind. Margery Huang, pharma sales shark and all around badass, seated at the mahogany desk that filled her office, her posture rod-straight, and her silver-streaked black hair tugged into its usual no-nonsense ponytail. I’d once overheard an intern whisper that Margery’s flawless ivory complexion glowed because she moisturized
with the tears of her subordinates. It was believable, which was one of the reasons I admired her. Unfortunately, the sentiment wasn’t mutual.
My voice remained cool, despite the alarm bells clanging in my mind. “What’s going on?”
“We have a problem. Bosephan is being pulled from the market. Pronto.”
“I’m sorry?” I pressed the button on my steering wheel to turn the volume up on our conversation, as if that would help Margery’s words make sense. “My connection must be bad. It sounded like you said we’re pulling Bosephan?”
“Yes. A few hours ago we got wind of a class action lawsuit. Rumor is the higher-ups have known about it for a while and have been trying to make it go away…but it isn’t. Trust me when I tell you I waited as long as I could to make sure this was real.”
“And is it?”
“It’s serious,” she said.
All visions of Jimmy Choo and his poetic, soul-speaking footwear vanished. If Margery said it was serious, it was serious.
“Why? What are they saying is happening? I mean, the side effects list is long and thorough…”
“Blood clots. Stroke. They’re saying Meyer Pharm knowingly downplayed the risks.”
“Did they? I mean, did we?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. I’m in sales not science. That’s not important. What is important is covering our asses.”
“It’s important to me.” I’d touted the safety and efficacy of Bosephan to every doctor I visited, and because of my pitch, they prescribed the sleeping pill to their patients. Bosephan was my account. Sure, there were other salespeople assigned the drug, but I was top tri-state earner for the past two years. I knew Bosephan’s listed side effects like the back of my perfectly manicured hand.
The pill was a modern rebrand of an erectile dysfunction medication that Meyer Pharmaceutical shelved in the nineties. Its original reason for being pulled—a side effect of intense drowsiness and painful morning wood if whoever took it didn’t find “release” before falling asleep—was what made it a miracle drug for many women with insomnia. It wasn’t often prescribed to cis men, but no peen, no pain, no problem. At least that’s what I’d been led to believe and what I’d
assured my clients was the truth.
The idea that I’d played a part in harming innocent people made me ill.
“All I know,” Margery continued, “is it’s a PR nightmare, and Meyer doesn’t want to deal with the repercussions. There’s an audit, and I have to turn over all of our sales and samples info, so I’ll need your notes and logs ASAP. Cordelia, they want it gone. Like yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” This was bad.
“Yesterday,” Margery repeated firmly.
I leaned into my headrest, eyes closed as I massaged my temples with my index fingers, doing my best to stave off the dull ache humming at the base of my skull. It was quiet hum for now, but was capable of growing into a stress-induced, debilitating roar. Ask me how I know.
I focused on inhaling slowly—in through my nose, out through my mouth—while envisioning my happy place. Silver table, rows of shelves, plastic spread over the floor, all perfectly tidy. Everything in its place. Another deep breath.
“Cordelia? Are you still there?” Margery’s voice pulled me back into the moment. “This is a very big deal.”
No shit, Margery.
An audit of my Bosephan sales account could mean trouble. Not like smushed cupcake trouble—but the kind of trouble that could land a woman in an orange jumpsuit—possibly for a very long time. Possibly for murder. I hated orange—it washed me out. So yeah. I’d say it was a big fucking deal.
“Cordelia?” My boss’s voice grew impatient.
I opened my eyes to see the orange tabby trot past my window. Smug bastard. I thought it was black cats who were unlucky.
“Are you there? Cor—”
“Sorry,” I interrupted. “I—my cell signal isn’t great.” I cleared my throat. “And yes. Of course. I’ll get my logs to you as soon as I can.”
“See that you do.”
We disconnected, and I hit the gas, gunning it off the school grounds.
This whole lawsuit was probably nothing to worry about.
Probably. Taking chances was a luxury I couldn’t afford. This would be bad for anyone,
but it would be next-level for someone with my unique situation. The sharp tips of my manicure dug into the leather of the steering wheel until my nail beds ached.
At the red light, instead of continuing in the direction of my office, I turned left, heading toward the highway that would take me to the other side of town, toward Practical Family Medicine.
In my five years working with Bosephan, I’d given out tons of samples. Which was no big deal—that’s what they’re for. Salespeople like myself gave samples to the doctors who grew to love the medication, so they prescribed it often, and my commission checks kept me in designer labels.
Which was great, because looking well-off and put-together made my other job easier. Or maybe it was more of a hobby? Depended on how you looked at it, I guess. Personally, I considered it a calling.
Either way, appearances mattered. And commission from Bosephan sales allowed me to appear like the type of person who was above getting her hands dirty.
But a pay cut—even a deep one—wasn’t enough to send me into panic mode. However, skimming off the top of my stash of samples was unfortunately a fireable offense—with possible legal consequences. An audit from my company could (and likely would) lead to a criminal investigation that could lead police to a particular workshop. One housed in a storage unit outside of town. That would not do.
I glanced in my rearview mirror. My company-issued tablet sat on the backseat, but old-fashioned paper forms worked better for this arrangement. With one hand on the wheel, I reached behind me and pulled my leather work bag to the front passenger seat and unsnapped it. Good.
The folder with the required paperwork was tucked inside, exactly where it belonged. Everything was going to be fine.
I’d sacrificed too much to get here. I’d done things I couldn’t undo. Scary things. Things that hurt. Things like lying to people I loved, because regardless of what Diane thought, I was a great liar…when I had to be. And then there was Joanie…I could never forget Joanie.
Getting rid of her had taken everything I had. That itself proved Cordelia Black wasn’t afraid to do the difficult thing. I’d be damned if, after everything I’d poured into creating this life, undocumented sleeping pills led to my
unraveling.
I merged onto the highway. There was no reason to panic—I’d assessed the risk before the first time I’d ever slipped one of the perfect little pills into a predator’s drink. All I had to do was stick to my plan.
Which was easy—because it was a great plan. A solid plan. Meticulous.
The plan’s name was Dr. Robin Ezelle, and she’d be happy to see me—or at least happy for the money I gave her. Same as she’d done many times before, she’d sign the logs saying she’d received my missing samples, and I’d slip her cash for her trouble.
It had been months since I’d paid her a visit, which okay, I could now see was not so meticulous after all—leaving so many samples unaccounted for. But in my defense, this whole fiasco sprang up out of nowhere. Bosephan, in its current form, had been around for years with zero issues. I’d grown complacent—and a person with my particular interests (Hobby? Calling? Proclivities?) could never be complacent. Lesson learned.
Deep breath. Yes. I was in control. Of the situation. Of everything.
This was the major difference between who I was and who I’d become.
Once upon a time, I’d been a scared throwaway girl who would’ve given in to anxiety. Who would’ve squirmed and flailed.
Now, I simply adjusted my course.
Now, Cordelia came out on top. Always.
By the time I made it to Diane’s that evening, it felt like days, not hours, had passed since my panicked phone call with my boss.
Which made the fact that there was a pickup truck parked on the street in front of Diane’s house just perfect. Diane was enough for me, but occasionally she tried to usher me into her small group of work friends, inviting me to bachelorette parties and girls’ nights. Thanks, but no thanks.
I eased on my brakes as I pulled past the truck, slowing almost to a stop. A turquoise Mercy Hospital parking tag, same as the one in Diane’s Jeep, hung from its rearview mirror.
After the emotional suck-fest of my day, adding a party crasher to the mix was the last thing I needed or wanted.
Because you want to know what had happened to my plan? My perfect plan—my meticulous, foolproof paperwork-fixing plan?
It was not so foolproof, it turned out.
After the phone call with my boss, I’d driven straight to Practical Family Medicine, ready to get a handle on things and get back to my perfectly orchestrated life. You know. The life where I didn’t worry about my company getting the police involved because of unaccounted sleeping pills, and those cops snooping around until they found out things about me they most definitely did not need to know.
But it was going to be fine—because of my plan.
Except.
When I stomped into the doctor’s office, the receptionist sounded almost gleeful when she told me Dr. Ezelle—my one-woman key to safety—had suffered a stroke.
Okay, fine. No big deal. Cordelia Black could handle it. Determined to put this problem behind me, I’d driven straight to the hospital, where I’d lied to the nurse’s desk. I’m here to see my cousin. Poor thing had a stroke. Easy. With the forms tucked beneath my arm, I’d marched into Dr. Ezelle’s room, convinced this was nothing but a small snafu.
I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.
Dr. Robin Ezelle lay curled into herself, tiny and fragile in the hospital bed. Her gray hair frazzled around her sallow white face, while tubes ran into her nose and burrowed beneath the delicate skin of her arms. Machines beeped, and on the overhead television, a woman guessed the price of a crate of toothpaste with an audience cheering her on. I stared at the doctor’s limp body until a nurse bustled into the room.
“Sweetie, don’t give up hope,” she’d said, patting my arm, mistaking my bewilderment for grief.
I gripped the forms to my chest. My whole stash of samples were now unaccounted for, the papers left unsigned. And me, unprotected.
“Will she wake up today?” I asked, the perfect amount of concern in my voice.
“Anything’s possible,” the nurse said, but the way she hadn’t looked at me felt
intentional.
I’d made an excuse and bolted.
Now, I shifted into park and cut the ignition. Slumping in my seat, I stared through the windshield at the modest two-story bungalow that was practically my second home. Diane and Sugar were the only family I had. The only real family I’d ever had.
But if this Bosephan fiasco spiraled into something bigger—if there was a legal investigation—they, nor anyone else, would ever look at me the same.
It wasn’t fair. The work I did—the necessary good work—would be laid bare, distorted. Picked apart by the press like vultures tearing meat from bone. No one would care that the men I killed were monsters. I’d be painted as psychotic. A psychotic, man-hating bitch.
Because yes, that is what I was doing in my workshop. I was getting rid of bad men.
Bile crept up my esophagus. I swallowed, but its taste remained, sour and acidic like a bite of rotten fruit.
A curtain moved in Diane’s front window, and Sugar appeared. She smiled her big brace-faced smile and waved. If I wasn’t inside in five minutes, she’d be at my car, talking nonstop without taking a breath.
God, I loved that kid.
It had always been the three of us—Cor, Di, and Sugar-Bug—and there was nothing I wouldn’t do to protect that. Losing Diane and Sugar because of fucking medication samples could not happen. I wouldn’t let it.
The folder holding the forms sat right there, on the passenger seat—what was I waiting for? I dug a pen from my glove box. Damn it, I’d handle this now and put it behind me.
I thumbed through the stack, backdating each form and scrawling Dr. Ezelle’s chicken-scratch signature. If push came to shove, once the doctor recovered, she could be convinced to say the signatures were hers. I was a fair person; I’d even send her the usual payment. It was fine.
There. I signed the last page with flourish. Done.
I rolled my shoulders and relaxed my jaw, and the bile that had risen like mercury in an old-school thermometer dissipated. ...
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