Me.

One.

John stepped back after placing the last calla lily in the Tiffany vase. He slipped the hand towel from his shoulder and dried his hands as he grinned at his creation. The vibration at his wrist stole his attention. His eyebrows shot up as the time registered and he stopped his alarm. He lingered a moment longer to drink in the room's beauty. Deep red roses contrasted against the white lilies, filling several standing vases in each corner of the room, throwing a soft floral scent around the space. The middle of the room had a large oak table covered by a white linen tablecloth that had been expertly starched. Square onyx plates contrasted against the stark white of the tablecloth. The silver flatware had been meticulously polished and gleamed even in the dim light. Candles lined the center of the table and surrounded his latest floral arrangement. He pulled a lighter from his back pocket and lit each one, casting an extra glow in the room while sending shadows dancing.

Satisfied with his decorating skills, he tossed the hand towel over his shoulder and pocketed the lighter. Despite not hiring a decorator, everything was turning out exactly as he had planned. He gave a soft sigh, releasing the smallest portion of his building anxiety. Months of careful planning culminated in this one evening, and everything had to be perfect. There was so much on the line. The exhilaration at the sight of his work escaped and the small ball of anxiety he’d sighed out returned bigger and heavier than before. Still, he didn’t have time to dwell. He wasn’t prepared to allow anxiety and doubt to take over just yet. Instead, he exited the dining room and rushed down the wide hall to the kitchen.

Here, he did not add embellishments to the existing décor. He didn’t feel the need. Expensive abstract art of various sizes caught the eyes as one traveled from one room to another. Statuettes and sculptures adorned the expensive hall tables. Walking down this hall, in the heart of his home, one could easily feel transported to a modern art gallery. John ignored it all. Although a collector, he was not an art lover. An interior decorator and art curator had worked together to make the home as inviting, stylish, and (most importantly) as expensive looking as possible. Of course, John could name every piece and even provide important details to inquiring minds. He could even do so with the enthusiasm he witnessed in others. But inside, he rolled his eyes at the stupidity of it all. Someone throws a splash of blue over red, and the world loses their minds. Art critics find meaning in scribbles that appear as if chimpanzees created them. Still, it was important for someone of his stature and means to fit in. Thus, as his fortune grew, so did his taste—or at least that was how it appeared to the mindless sheep lucky enough to receive an invitation.

He pushed open the wide swinging door separating the kitchen from the hall. The door was a recent addition, added while he was on his last assignment in Belize. He stepped back and watched as the door swung toward, then away from him. He nodded approvingly, then pushed again to enter. “It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing,” he sang in time with the soft music wafting from the ceiling. Ella Fitzgerald scatted back at him. He tapped his foot and snapped in time. His head bobbed and his shoulders shimmied as he tied a crisp, white apron around his waist. “I said, it don’t mean a thing, don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing, boy.” He sang louder, drowning out the songstress. He danced to the stove in jiving steps and lifted the lid off a saucepot. Steam and the earthy aroma of wild mushroom smacked him in the face, and he grinned. He opened a drawer, pulled out a clean tasting spoon, and dipped it into the bubbling sauce.

“Damn, that’s good,” he said to the empty room, tossing the spoon into the industrial sink as he replaced the lid on the saucepot.

He danced his way to the island and examined seasonings laid out earlier. Satisfied with the selection, he danced his way to the fridge. Hesitation stopped him as he grabbed the handle to the refrigerator side of the double doors. He released the door and brought his shaking hands in front of his face. He stared at them, not understanding. A bead of sweat broke out on his forehead. He dropped his hands to his sides and met the distorted eyes of his double in the polished chrome, swallowing a lump in his throat as he took a step away from the menacing figure.

John rubbed his hands on the apron and swallowed hard. He closed his eyes and took a breath. When he opened them again, he felt better. The distorted version of him seemed to have settled as well. He scoffed at his silliness and pressed his palm to the door. His left eye twitched as he forced himself to pull. The door released under his grasp, the seal breaking with a soft pop. He refused the urge to slam the door shut and pulled it open. The bright fluorescent light greeted him. His gaze immediately dropped to the bottom meat drawer, and he jumped as a cry escaped his lips. He released his grasp on the door, which swung wide, bouncing on its hinge. John caught his breathing and cursed. He glanced at his watch and scowled. He reached into his back pocket to retrieve his vibrating cell phone.

“What?” John didn’t bother hiding his irritation at being disturbed.

He turned his back on the still open fridge and took a couple of steps. “Hello?” he asked when he received no answer. John removed the device from his ear, scowling, and a black screen greeted him. He placed a thumb on the biometrics circle and the display lit up. Next, he tapped the phone icon and waited. He frowned at the screen. There was no evidence of the last call in his call history. His frown deepened. He killed the display and stuffed the device in his pocket.

John returned his attention to the open fridge. The stress of the event was getting to him. He had probably imagined his phone vibrating. after all, the call history said his last call was over four hours ago. Perhaps a glass of wine will settle this old biddy, he thought as he advanced on the frigid air. He shut the door and headed to the rear of the kitchen.

He opened the door to the basement and shivered at the gust of cool air. John took the initial step into the darkness below. An overhead light came to life, along with lights under each stair. John descended the steps, whistling with the fading music. He crossed the length of the space until he reached the temperature-controlled wine chamber. From memory, he punched in the series of numbers required to unlock the door. He pushed and entered the space. As he traveled the shelves, he tapped his lips with his index finger. Lines formed on his forehead as he considered his choices. After searching several shelves, he returned to the first and settled on a recent addition to his vast collection. He removed the bottle of pinot grigio from its slot.

Back in the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of the expensive wine, performed the customary moves, and drew a long sip. John smiled as the flavors danced on his tongue. He took another swig and swallowed hard. He checked the time on his oven display, knowing he would need to get a move on if there was any hope of being ready for his visitors. The next swig turned into a lengthy swallow, which finished the glass. He poured again, but forced himself to slow down. It would not serve him well to get wasted before his guests arrived. He shuddered at the thought of the headlines, and this time, took a small swig of the delicious wine.

Tonight was his night to shine. He bent over and slid open the transparent plastic drawer on the floor of the icebox. Collecting the contents, he pushed the drawer shut again. Almost trembling, he set down the most important part of his meal on the island. His tongue poked out and rolled across his bottom lip. The corners of his mouth tugged up as he reached for the first bag. Without taking his gaze from the packaging, he opened a drawer to his right and grabbed a pair of scissors. He sliced through the plastic packaging. He replaced the scissors and shut the drawer in a swift motion—his eyes on his prize the entire time.

John opened the first parcel, releasing his breath in a fast puff. He paused, caught his breathing, and brought the packet to his nose. Inhaling, he closed his eyes, savoring the scent of the fresh meat bathed in the metallic tang of blood. John sighed as he put down the first and repeated the motions with the subsequent packages. They’d traveled well. He hummed as he gave each portion the lightest dusting of salt and pepper, careful not to overpower the delicate meat.

Two.

The doorbell chimed and the display on the counter came to life. Although the sun had long ago set, the porch lights illuminated, providing his doorbell camera with a clear shot of his first guest. John took another lengthy swig of his wine. He considered the glass for a moment, then downed it before depositing it into the sink. Giving the command to lower the music, he crossed the large room and opened the walk-in pantry. Without turning on the light, he removed the apron from his waist and tossed it into the laundry chute. He traversed the house, taking a last peek into both the sitting and dining rooms as he passed them. Still satisfied everything was in order, he took a long breath and swung open one of the massive double doors. It swung back without sound, allowing the warm evening air to rush in. He plastered on his winning smile to keep from gritting his teeth.

“John, darling,” Valerie Swank called as she kissed him on each cheek.

“Valerie.” John stood back to accept his guest. “You get more lovely every occasion I see you.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, playing demure. She batted her long lashes and tossed a well-manicured hand as she said, “Oh stop that, you old fool.”

“I mean it. You’re as gorgeous as the day I first met you.” His tongue was heavy with the lie. He focused on holding his smile to keep from choking on the sourness of his words.

She spun to meet his gaze. Her blonde hair was so light it appeared white under the soft glow of the dimmed lights. She wagged a thin finger at him, the red tip tracing lines in the air.

“Now John Castiblanco, I did not come here to be charmed by you.” She chuckled and her laughter sounded like glass shards in a blender. She winked at him, and her eye remained closed a moment too long. Inside, he shuddered, but still he moved toward her, then held out a hand to show the course to the sitting room. Her smile broadened, and she led the way, heels clicking on the wood floor as she marveled at the fresh additions to his collection as they passed through the hall.

Ella Fitzgerald continued to croon through the stereo system, following them through the main part of the house and into the sitting room. When not entertaining, this room remained empty. However, like everything else, it remained tastefully and immaculately decorated. John could not suppress his grin when they entered the room, and Valerie gave a small gasp, her hand going to her chest.

“Sit, please.” He motioned to choices in comfort, and she perched herself on the edge of a large wing-backed chair. He retreated to the mini bar tucked into the corner and busied himself with preparing drinks, but watched her from the corner of his eye as she fussed with the hem of her dress. The white silk fabric contrasted with the orange tint of her skin.

“Were you recently on holiday?” he asked.

“Hmm? No. Why do you ask?”

“Your lovely color. It’s too cold in New York to sit out and tan, isn’t it?”

Her laugh came out as a loud bark. She waved a hand in dismissal. “Injections, darling. It’s all the rage right now.”

He carried over the drinks and took the seat next to her. He swallowed a long sip of the costly scotch. She watched her glass as she swirled the ice.

“So, tell me, what’s new with the infamous Valerie Swank?”

She smiled, but several breaths passed before she replied. “Not much. I suppose one could say I am getting used to the single life again.” She gave a humorless laugh, shrugged, then took a long swig of her drink.

John nodded. He eyed her as he had another sip. The ice clanked to the floor of the glass, breaking the silence. Valerie swirled the amber liquid around the bottom of her tumbler, ice clanking against sides melodically. She scoffed and a half smile turned up the corners of her green eyes as she met John’s. After draining the contents, she issued a sigh of satisfaction and held out her empty glass, tapping her nails against it. Forever the compliant host, he stood and accepted it.

“Joel was such a piece of shit,” she said.

He assumed she expected him to ask a question or offer some sort of reply. Instead, he emptied her ice into the small sink and ran the tap, rinsing out her cup. He sat it at the heart of the sink — repeating the actions for his own.

“I caught that spineless S.O.B. flirting with my assistant!” Her voice rose as she said, “assistant.”

John grinned as he retrieved two fresh glasses from the shelf.

“My assistant.” She clucked her tongue.

He plopped ice cubes into a glass. Valerie grew silent behind him. The doorbell chimed. John turned his attention to the screen tucked away on a far wall. From his position, he could not make out the shape illuminated by the porch lights.

“Well, I guess my private audience is over,” Valerie said.

John returned to her side and passed her a fresh drink with a grin. “Excuse me a moment, Valerie.”

“Of course.” She accepted the scotch and gave him another awful wink. He wondered how she still signaled the various parts of her face with the many injections filling it. He stifled a gag as he retreated and headed for the front door.

The moment it swung open, his guest on the other side called, “John! Omg! It’s so good to see you.” Her voice poured out like honey.

He greeted her with a warm smile. In another life, it would have been genuine, as he was quite fond of her. “Joanne. I'm honored.” John stepped back to allow her inside.

“John!”

His smile died. He sucked in a silent gasp and forced himself to bare his teeth, attempting a smile. He released the breath around clenched teeth and said, “Hello, Tucker.”

Tucker Landing ran a palm through his curly blonde locks and held out the other for John. John’s forced grin fell into a grimace. He moved to shut the door, keeping himself busy to avoid interacting with the guest he was least excited about having invited. Had he even invited him, or was he forced? He supposed it was a bit of both since over the years, his disdain for the boy had grown to new heights. Was it too late to throw him out? Pretend his invite was a mistake? Perhaps he could blame it on a clerical error made by his assistant.

“Wait! Hold on there,” the last guest called from outside.

Even more relieved than when he received his respite from Valerie moments ago, John opened the door and called, “Maury! Glad to see you. Jiggle yourself on up here.”

“Ha, ha,” Maury said, between heavy breaths.

John smirked. He huffed and stared at his watch, tapping his foot as Maury Whiteford finished the climb up the driveway. Maury pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed at his face, then wiped his hands.

“You son of a bitch,” the large man said, chest heaving but voice steadier.

John snorted. “You get bigger every time I see you. Are you pumping fat injections into your food now?

“Asshole.” The strain lingered in his breathing, but his panting slowed. “I ought to—”

“Oh wow! Maury Whiteford? You’re kidding me. I didn't know he'd be here!”

John sucked in a deep inhale. His dark eyes narrowed as his shoulders tensed and his free hand tightening into a fist. Maury craned his neck to glance over John’s shoulder as he pocketed his handkerchief. When his gaze returned to John, he smirked. John forced his shoulders from his ears, not wanting to give Maury the satisfaction of seeing him upset. Still, it was hard to hide his disdain. Releasing the breath he held, he gave Maury a tight smile and took a step back to make room for the large man. Maury waddled in, smiling like a jackal. The gleam in his eyes let John know he was aware of his dislike of the blonde speaking behind him, despite his efforts to hide it. He shuddered at the thought of someone knowing him so well. There was only one person in the world he trusted enough to allow into his inner circle—it certainly was not Maury Whiteford.