A kindergarten is one of the worst places for grown men and women to linger when dressed in black hoodies or in my own case, trench coats and hats of any color. Tobias considered this carefully when he chose his disguise that morning. When I stood in his exact position, I lament that I did not, and was quickly chased from the property—though I did double back after removing my coat and stuffing it in my typewriter's case.

Tobias, unintimidating and—apart from a missing foot—unremarkable, went quite unnoticed on the kindergarten grounds with his blonde, slightly melted silicon mask and his last pair of blue contact lenses. He waited by a large black sedan, absently smoothing out the wrinkles in his plain white button-up.

He watched many mothers and fathers walk their children up the path, most below the height of his thighs. It was loud, causing a pounding in his head and mild disorientation. Discomfort and irritation increased steadily. Little ones screamed at each other; laughed; cried to their parents for abandoning them at the doorstep. His hands noticeably trembled over his cane in a state of agitation.

Tobias's eyes drifted over all to one particular boy in the crowd. Handsome and well-dressed in expensive and up-to-date fashion, gifted with his father's dashing hazel eyes which glinted gold in the sunlight as a god's should. He had the same spiky blonde hair that Benjamin Jones used to, before it all roasted to chestnut. Unfortunately for the child, he carried his mother's pinched lips, superior attitude, and stuffy posture. The boy's button nose never lowered from a skyward point of indignation.

Tobias's person seized with fearful premonition. Before he could take the time to reflect on and understand the sudden, twisting pains that shot through his body, he fled from the vehicle. Following instincts of vision, he limped into the crowd, all the while rubbing the node below his ear with weary reminiscence.

The wealthy young boy left his mother at the door and the woman turned back towards her sleek company car not a moment later. Big hair bounced. Red heels clicked with perfect rhythm, toes as pointed as her pale nose. She did not see him. Whatever cramp—a sixth sense, perhaps?—he had suffered had saved him, he realized, from being exposed in that instant. He was sure of it. She would know the mask, and he had suspicions that she would know the face beneath.

This woman was not foolish.

Tobias carefully waited for her to pass before he followed. He had to pick up his pace, half-jogging over the chalk-covered sidewalk with his peg and cane until he arrived in an intimate range of hearing.

"Mrs. Jones," he hailed, barely more than a whisper.

She stopped. She had not taken her partner's name. Tobias filled with a warm and rewarding pleasure that brought a shaky smile to his lips.

It was funny. He had smiled more in past few weeks than he had in the past four years. Genuinely.

The woman looked to her sides at the many ears surrounding. She kept her back to him.

This was the kind of off guard that Tobias wanted; the kind of off guard that would not provoke a shout or a scream or the drawing of attention. Tobias and Dizzy, in their data scan before bed the night before, had not been able to uncover any information about the details of Benjamin Jones and his lawyer's relationship. I attempted to dig deeper, but found the same.

"Mrs. Benjamin Jones," he repeated carefully, his tone level, his gaze firm.

The lawyer turned slowly. Her eyes widened the moment they met his and she faltered in her heels with a weak-ankled step backwards and a slight gasp. Tobias caught her by the shoulder and set her right, then withdrew his hand to his cane.

She grabbed where he had touched, horrified. Her bright red lips quivered, then pinched. The woman fixed her blue blazer sleeve and folded her arms, holding him with a harsh steely stare. "I know who you are, too."

"Then I am sure you must know that there is no move that you can make that I can't predict."

"You were always a reasonable man," she observed. Her eyes lowered to her manicure. "I can only hope you remain to be, at least to some degree. Unless you plan to make a move against me, why would I make any move against you? What do you want, Mr... 'McGuire'?"

Tobias lifted his cane to gesture towards her sedan. "Let's take a drive, shall we?"

She bit her lip and glanced off over the crowds. Neither Tobias nor Mrs. Jones—as we shall know her in this narrative—wished to have their identities exposed, but the chances of her revealing his were remarkably slim. I say remarkably because Mr. MacClain described it in a way that made me question humanity even further and left a dry distaste in my mouth that no amount of tea could wash away. Did Mrs. Jones love Mr. Might? I could not say nor speculate as I have uncovered no evidence for or against the notion. Love and romance have always alluded me and I fail to comment on either in any fathom of depth. But the case is thus; Mrs. Jones was compliant because she had a reputation in her name that was important to her than her safety or the apprehension of Tobias MacClain. Was it important to keep her relationship a secret for Benjamin's sake, or her own? The answer lies in a tub of secrets so murky that it could taint a reporter's nose permanently for snooping.

Mrs. Jones unlocked the car and inquired as to who was driving. Tobias moved the passenger seat back, placed his satchel on the floor, and folded his hands in his lap, and Mrs. Jones passively folded behind the wheel. She brushed her hair behind her ears and took a deep breath before turning the key in the ignition.

"You saw Toby?" she asked.

Tobias frowned, looking pensively to his cane. It was nice to have something to hold onto. It helped to still his restless hands. "That is your boy's name?" Something very repressed, deep down, panged. There was something powerful in a name. Tobias moved to push up his glasses, then realized they weren't there and pressed his index to the bridge of his nose. "I saw him."

"Benjamin named him."

"Does he have a full name?"

"It is Tobias."

Tobias stared at the glove compartment, unseeing and expressionless.

"He named him for you," she continued, searching him. "He has been a mess with you gone."

Tobias sneered and rolled his eyes. "Then perhaps he should not have let me go so easily." He turned around in his chair to scrutinize the back seat. It was clean—an impersonal, "brand new car" kind of overwhelming clean. The expensive children's car seat was the only hint of the back of the car ever being used.

Tobias turned back, eyes narrowed. "Where is the package, Mrs. Jones?"

Her jaw clenched. "Please, don't call me that."

"Where is the package?" he repeated.

Pink painted her porcelain face, filling to the tips of her ears. She shook her head. Her lips barely parted to breathe, "I don't know what you are talking about."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

His teeth clenched and he grabbed a fistful of his hair. He felt a sting over his brow from the mask glue and nothing more. His fingers uncurled and flicked towards the windscreen. "Start driving," he barked. "To the post office. Make haste and play no games. I can see our futures, and I can promise you, there are things I can do if you try anything funny. Things that can make your death in a car crash appear accidental, or, if I am feeling so inclined, suicidal."

Defiance and frustration yanked the faint lines over her thin brows downwards, like blinds. Her nose wrinkled. After a few moments of drumming her smoothly lacquered nails against her leather-softened steering wheel and a glance to the kindergarten doors beyond him, she set her jaw and changed the gear. The sedan silently moved out, engine as tamed and manicured as if it were electric.

"Now." Tobias relaxed in his seat under the comforting weight of certainty, like a blanket against the cold. He reached to open the glove compartment and saw the woman flinch in the corner of his eye. He drew out her pistol. A clean new model, as sleek and polished as everything she seemed to own. He checked the cartridge, then pointed the weapon at her stomach, careful to keep it low and away from the windows. He met her suddenly pale cheek with a bland stare. "The package, Mrs. Jones. We are going to deliver it. Where is it?"

"Un..." She bit her lip, eyes flicking from the road to the black muzzle. "Please put that away."

Tobias pointed the gun away from her and lifted his brows.

"Under your seat," she whispered. "It is under your seat."

He nodded and smiled. "Thank you."

The raw scars of his back stretched with a livening sting as he doubled forward to search. While his left hand investigated an apparent hidden compartment, he kept his right hand on the gun, near enough to the lawyer to keep her agreeable.

"How do I access this?" he inquired, thumbing the thin gaps around the edges of what seemed to be a drawer. He heard the answer in the back of his mind and opened it with a press to one corner before the lawyer spoke in the present. The drawer slid out easily and he lifted it onto his lap. A familiar red parcel sat on a neatly folded grey hoodie, bound in a laced white ribbon tied in an elaborate bow and completed with a heart-shaped tag.

To my dear Benjamin

Love, your admirer

Tobias studied the ribbon to make certain that when it was retied, it would be tied the same way. Then, he slipped the ribbon off and very delicately removed the wrapping paper. An expert at obsessively preserving wrapping paper on presents, Tobias easily kept the paper intact. He placed it and the ribbon on the back seat and opened the lid of the white gift box. A chamomile and peppermint blend filled the car with its gentle fragrance, the loose tea bound in a translucent violet-colored pouch that was bound in lavender ribbon.

"Please, don't kill him." The woman shuddered. "He is ashamed of what he did."

"You missed the turn-off." Tobias scowled. "Turn around."

She whimpered quietly and pulled the sedan into a corporate driveway to make a U-turn. Stripes of shadows stretched over them from metropolitan skyscrapers. The morning sunlight was just beginning to glint off the curved highway overhead.

Tobias opened the flap of his satchel and lifted out a jar. It sent a chill up his arm and cast cold over his face as he placed the lid to one side. From the ice he carefully dislodged his syringe of virus. He took his glasses case from the pocket of his trousers and, from beside his shining round specs, pinched an unopened needle between his fingers. He removed the plastic casing and fitted the needle carefully on the syringe, holding its cap in place.

"Pull over, please. This is delicate."

"I can't pull over here."

"Never mind, I can wait."

"What is that? Poison?"

"Nothing harmful, realistically speaking." Tobias sighed and looked out the window. The post office was not far. "You can calm down, Mrs. Jones. I'm not a villain."

If not for a streak of mascara, Mrs. Jones might have gotten away with her discrete wiping of tears. Tobias missed the motion of her hand but frowned at the shaky black smear at the corner of her eye upon turning back from the window.

"I am acting like one," he realized quietly. He returned his glasses case to his pocket. "But if I hadn't taken the gun, you would have. If I hadn't snuck up on you and used your name, you would have shouted mine before I had a chance to speak. I can justify my actions."

"You are about to poison your best friend. Can you justify that?"

"Please," Tobias scoffed, rolling his eyes. He lowered the syringe into the gift box. "Benjamin Jones is no friend of mine. And as I said, this is not harmful. It isn't poison. This is over your head, Mrs. Jones. So long as you are compliant, no one will be hurt by my hand."

The brief remainder of the journey was tense, despite the calming fragrance of the tea. Mrs. Jones kept her blinking eyes on the road, while Tobias carefully set the gift box and needle on the floor between his feet. He took the grey hoodie from the hidden drawer and pulled it over his head, to muted protest from his hostage. The garment hung off him, a great deal of room to spare. It smelled of tea and that peculiar grape-scented hair product that always kept Mr. Might's hair flawless. Tobias soured, small and suffocated in its unwanted chokehold. It shouldn't have smelled good to him. He refused to let it smell good. He rolled up the sleeves and pointed to a parking space beside a leafy tree.

"Park there, please."

The sedan lurched to a stop. Tobias's hand smacked against the glove compartment to keep himself upright. Visions of going through the windshield, visions of crashing into the tree, visions of branches piercing his skin fluttered from his mind and his heart gradually recovered its beat. It was an accident, natural and likely in the circumstances.

"Sorry," Mrs. Jones muttered quickly.

He smacked his other hand over the pistol before she could take it. While he was disoriented! Tobias came to himself in record time and raised the pistol's muzzle in her direction, scowling at her retreating blue manicure. "Remember who it is you are dealing with before you attempt the element of surprise, Mrs. Jones." He pulled down the visor in front of her, revealing the mirror. "Fix your make-up."

While she obediently, albeit reluctantly, opened her purse and searched her make-up kit, Tobias picked up the tea and the syringe. He shook the bulk of Benjamin Jones's hoodie sleeves away from his elbows in frustration. Uncomfortable. In the way. As smothering as the man himself.

He loosed the lavender ribbon, opening the pouch of tea. Then, he uncapped his needle and opened the car door to flick the air bubbles out, loosing a few drops of pale blue virus onto the rocky pavement. With his left hand, he held onto his dominant right wrist to calm his tremors. His missing middle finger made it difficult to handle the syringe, so he switched hands. Carefully and as evenly as he could manage, Tobias tainted the loose leaves. Just enough that it would go unnoticed, but it would be effective. He capped the needle of the syringe, removed it, and placed it into the ice jar. Then, he emptied the syringe onto the pavement and discarded it in the drawer under his chair.

Tobias retied the lavender ribbon and replaced the lid of the box. He checked the body language of the lawyer for any signs of impulsive action. Once content, he retrieved the red wrapping paper and neatly wrapped the parcel. He set it on her lap, the ribbon with it.

"Tie it the exact way that you always do, please."

She pursed her red lips and shakily wound the white lace around the box. It took a few tries to get the bow right, to a standard that Tobias deemed acceptable. When it was done, he ordered her to step out of the vehicle with it.

He tossed his gloves on the seat and walked with her to the post office, especially slow without his cane. Anything to avoid attention.

His burned hand burrowed in the pocket of his hoodie, finger on the trigger of the pistol that she knew very well was pointed towards her. His other hand maintained a grip on her shoulder as he steered her through the door.

"Send the package as you always do. Know that I can't be fooled; please do it correctly."

At this hour, the small lobby was empty of people. Behind the desk, only one employee stood, rubbing his eyes, which looked ruefully to the clock hung over the door. He greeted Mrs. Jones with her true name, offering a smile to her, and a look of uncertainty to her companion.

This man knew nothing about the lawyer, but to expect her every Monday morning before the first mail truck left the depot. She would give him a handsome tip each week to not look at the heart-shaped tag, and being a dreadfully honest young person, he simply declined the tip and never looked despite it. I paid him a visit in the means of research, and found nothing conclusive, but that this was the last time that she visited after a consistent few years. How many years? Unfortunately for me, he claimed that he did not know. Another dead end.

The parcel was handed off, the bribe declined, and the security cameras avoided as much as possible. As they sullenly returned to the car, the woman asked if she was free to go.

"Free to go and phone Benjamin, you mean?" Tobias asked, condescending. "I'm afraid not."

"Headquarters will notice my absence."

"Get out your phone and notify them that you have fallen ill."

The woman glared at the ground, her nails cutting into her palms.

"I am being serious," Tobias said, brow sinking. "Get out your phone."

Grinding her teeth together, she drove her hand into her designer purse and drew the cellular phone out. Tobias supervised her brief call, then smiled at her completion.

"Thank you."

"Let's just get this over with, MacClain," Mrs. Jones sneered and flicked her bouncing, big hair away from her face. Her shoulders straightened as she tucked the phone away. "What more do you want from me?"

"Your cooperation, Mrs. Jones," his smile broadened, a twinkle of inexplicable and estranging excitement unmistakable in his eye. "That is all."