The downtown core snarled at Annabel, mean and gray, wind whipping round each corner. She normally loved this walk to work. The tall office towers gave her hope that one day, when her heels were high enough, she’d find her place at the top. But today, the buildings only dwarfed her. They kept their noses in the air as they told her to crawl back into bed and wait out this flu, let the Utopia Girl case run its course without her interference.
Stupid virus. It was actually warm out—still technically summer—and here she was shivering in her wool sweater and scarf.
Her phone beeped inside her purse. Like an addict, she cast a furtive glance in all directions before she reached in and pulled out her BlackBerry.
Utopia Girl: You at work yet?
Death Reporter: Walking there now.
Utopia Girl: Late start? Tsk, tsk. You’ve been missing a lot of work lately.
Death Reporter: How do you know?
Annabel wrapped her scarf more snugly around her neck. Who knew she’d left work early the previous day? Penny? Matthew? Or had Utopia Girl been following her? She could be anyone, anywhere. And she could poison a public figure without anyone witnessing a thing.
Utopia Girl: Because I’m everywhere.
Annabel’s breath got faster. Shallower. She felt wheezy. She caught her reflection in the window of a small cafe. She looked huddled, fragile, old.
Utopia Girl: Kidding. You had your work email on auto-reply. I sent you a new obituary.
Annabel’s feet quickened their pace on the sidewalk. Penny would be monitoring her inbox, would have already seen the Ruiz obit and be waiting, elegant foot tapping on the floor beside Annabel’s cubicle, for her to show up at her desk.
But even as she hurried, Annabel typed.
Death Reporter: Do you move in the same circles as these politicians? Are you a fundraiser? A wife? A politician yourself? Curious how you gain access.
Utopia Girl: Of course you’re curious. So are the police. We’re going to leave that question alone for now. Oh hey—maybe I’m a reporter. Maybe I’m a friend of yours.
Death Reporter: None of my friends are reporters.
Utopia Girl: At least you have good judgment on some things. What if I said I was witnessing these crimes but prefer not to turn the killer in?
Death Reporter: I wouldn’t believe you. I don’t think you’re that crazy.
Utopia Girl: You mean you don’t want me to be that crazy. Who do you want me to be, Annabel?
As she stared at that question, Annabel nearly bumped into a man in a mid-priced business suit who also hurried along the sidewalk. Two rats in the rat race, colliding briefly then moving along their pointless paths.
Except Annabel’s path wasn’t pointless anymore.
Utopia Girl: I’ll answer that for you. You want me to be your ticket out of nameless hell. Whatever sells more books is who you want me to be. The saner the better, really.
Annabel sneezed. She used her scarf to wipe her nose and face. It was kind of disgusting, but the scarf was Burberry so she didn’t toss it into the city garbage bin like she would have with a cheaper brand. She thought of the connection to Matthew’s class and another question popped into her head.
Death Reporter: Are you one person or more than one person?
Utopia Girl: You mean am I schizo?
Death Reporter: No. I mean, are you working alone or as part of a team?
Utopia Girl: Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere.
Death Reporter: In your obituaries, you say ‘we.’ You refer to the Society for Political Utopia. Is this a real club? I couldn’t find anything on Google so I assumed you were self-aggrandizing.
Utopia Girl: And now you’re wondering if it was more than just the royal “we”? OK I’ll give you this: there’s more than one of us.
Death Reporter: Is there more than one of you messaging with me?
Utopia Girl: Nope. That’s me alone.
Death Reporter: Are you the team member who poisons the victims? Or do you switch that up?
Utopia Girl: It’s always the same killer. And please stop calling them victims. Diminishes their culpability.
Annabel blew her nose into her scarf again. She ripped it from her throat and stuffed the scarf into a trash bin. Expensive or not, she didn’t need those germs around her neck.
Death Reporter: What are they guilty of?
Utopia Girl: I’m hurt, Annabel. Don’t you read my obituaries?
Death Reporter: Your obituaries don’t give a good enough reason. Unless you simply enjoy playing god with people’s lives.
Utopia Girl: There is nothing enjoyable about murder. These exchanges with you are probably my favorite part.
Death Reporter: Why?
Utopia Girl: Because if I end up dead or in jail, maybe you can use these clues to set the story straight.
Annabel felt a lump of phlegm sink down her throat into her chest.
Death Reporter: That’s a heavy responsibility.
Utopia Girl: No heavier than mine.
Death Reporter: So you see killing as your role—your responsibility?
Utopia Girl: More like a calling. Have you never felt called to anything?
Death Reporter: Not to evil.
Or had she? Was this evil, right now?
Utopia Girl: Am I evil because I’m trying to save the world? Or because my method doesn’t jive with conventional sensibility? It’s all a sliding scale. You of all people should know that.
Of all people? What did Utopia Girl know about her?
Death Reporter: What do you see in your future? If all goes well.
Utopia Girl: See, there’s the difference between us. You worry about your future as an individual. I’m worried about the collective future. If all goes well, our political climate improves and I slip away to graduate and live a valuable, productive life. Or maybe I won’t be able to live with myself, and I’ll write one more obituary.
Graduate. From university, as implied—or from life as a killer? It was a play on words she wouldn’t put past Matthew. Or Penny. Or anyone deflecting blame.
Death Reporter: Are you a student somewhere?
Utopia Girl: We’re all students. Come on, you know I’m not going to spoon-feed you.