Sparkle and Crime

Chapter 4: Terms and Conditions (May Include Murder)

“The map says we turn here,” Madeline said, her voice somewhere between a whisper and a whimper.

Maggie made the turn anyway, steering the car into a narrow alley behind a half-dead strip mall where even the pigeons looked like they’d given up.

Madeline glanced around, clutching her pink purse like it could double as a weapon. “Are we in the right place… or about to be featured on Unsolved Mysteries?”

Maggie didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed forward, jaw clenched with that very specific brand of determination that meant absolutely nothing good. “Both are very possible outcomes.”

The alley widened into a small, cracked parking lot nestled between a discount mattress outlet and two industrial-sized dumpsters. And there—like something out of a very sleek nightmare—waited a black car, polished to a mirror shine and idling in silence.

A man stood beside it. He looked like someone had carved him out of granite, dressed him in a designer suit, and told him emotions were for the weak. Black tie, dark shades, arms like battering rams. He didn’t smile. Probably didn’t blink either.

Madeline stared. “Mags. Please tell me that’s not our ride.”

“That’s our ride,” Maggie said, pulling into the spot like she was arriving at brunch.

“I thought hitmen looked like—like grizzled European types in turtlenecks. That guy looks like he moonlights as a security door.”

“They vary,” Maggie replied breezily. “Sometimes they’re ex-military. Sometimes they run juice bars on the side. Depends on the economy.”

The man tilted his head toward them with robotic precision, then raised one arm and motioned for them to approach.

Madeline’s heels clicked against the pavement with each nervous step. “This is so mob-movie. This is how people end up buried under artisanal concrete.”

“You’re not alone,” Maggie said softly, reaching out to entwine their fingers. “Whatever happens, we go together.”

That helped. A little.

Right up until the man reached into his coat.

Madeline froze. “Oh no. Oh hell no. This is it. He’s pulling out chloroform rags. I knew this was how I’d go. Murdered behind a SleepLand warehouse with last night’s mascara still on.”

The man pulled out two black strips of fabric.

“They’re blindfolds,” Maggie said, nodding at him like this was just your average Tuesday. “So we can’t track where we’re going. It’s cloak-and-dagger etiquette.”

Madeline’s voice pitched up an octave. “I read romance, Maggie. The closest thing I’ve ever blindfolded someone with was a silk necktie and consent forms. This is giving kidnapping.”

The man still said nothing. He simply opened the back door, all business, no bloodshed—yet.

“I cannot believe I’m doing this,” Madeline muttered as they slid into the back seat. “This is how horror podcasts start. ‘And then she willingly got in the car…’”

Inside, it was dark leather, clean and scentless. Cold, expensive silence.

The man leaned in and tied the blindfolds on one at a time. The silk was cool, delicate—like the last kind gesture you get before your life goes off a cliff.

“No talking,” the man said in a voice that sounded like gravel and restraint. “And no removing the blindfolds until instructed.”

Madeline whimpered—quietly, but still—and reached blindly for Maggie’s hand. Maggie found hers immediately, steady and warm.

The car pulled away with a low growl, leaving the cracked pavement behind.

Darkness enveloped them. The city fell away. And somewhere ahead, past the blindfolds, the silence, and the dread… waited a future they couldn’t quite name.

Maybe answers.

Maybe crime.

Probably both.

The ride felt endless.

Bumps in the road came without warning. Turns lurched left, then right, like the driver was following a map only he could see. Madeline gave up trying to count the minutes somewhere after “Dear God please let this end.”

Eventually, the car slowed, then eased to a stop.

The door opened.

“Don’t move,” the man’s voice said, cool and commanding.

He reached in, guiding Madeline out first. His large hand was surprisingly gentle at her elbow, his other palm ready to shield her head from the frame.

She felt gravel crunch beneath her heels. Wind touched her bare arms. Wherever they were, it wasn’t downtown anymore.

Maggie emerged next, and Madeline instinctively grabbed her hand like it was a lifeline—which, to be fair, it was.

A second voice spoke, slightly mechanical and distorted, like someone had shoved a sock in a synthesizer.

“Welcome, ladies. Please—do not remove your blindfolds yet.”

Madeline flinched. “Maggie. That voice. That’s a murderer voice. That’s what my nightmares sound like when I eat cheese too late.”

“It’s a vocal modulator,” Maggie whispered. “Totally normal. For people who don’t want to get arrested.”

“Oh, sure. That’s comforting.”

They were ushered forward—slowly, carefully. A door creaked open. Warm air swept over them. The smell of leather, incense, and something expensive hit Madeline’s nose like a perfume sample from hell.

Inside, they were lowered into what felt like plush chairs.

Footsteps. A click. A zip.

A thick wad of cash slapped into someone’s hand.

“Thank you,” the voice modulator said. “As always, your discretion is appreciated. As soon as we’re finished here, see that these ladies are returned to their car.”

The man grunted once—his version of a goodbye—and the door shut behind him.

Silence followed. Charged. Suspenseful.

Then, at last:

“You may remove your blindfolds now.”

Madeline’s fingers trembled as she reached up. “Okay, okay… don’t pass out. Be cool. Be mysterious. Be Bond-girl adjacent.”

She peeled the silk off slowly, as if yanking it off too fast might trigger a laser trap. Light pierced her vision. She blinked hard—once, twice—and then gasped.

“Holy… Mother of Marilyn Monroe.”

Maggie pulled her blindfold off beside her. “Oh wow. Yeah. That’s… not what I expected.”

The room looked like it had been curated by a seductive vampire with a Pinterest board: deep crimson velvet walls, gothic candelabras, sleek black marble floors polished to a sinful shine. A fireplace roared like it had its own soundtrack. Everything smelled faintly of sandalwood, danger, and debt.

And there—reclining on a velvet chaise like she owned not just the room but several small nations—sat the woman.

Voluminous red hair tumbled over her shoulder in glossy waves, like it had been styled by a wind machine and three personal assistants. Her body was poured into black leather so tight it had to be a second skin, and her lips—deep, carnal red—looked like they could issue death sentences or kisses with equal conviction.

She held a whiskey glass in one hand, her manicured finger slowly circling the rim like she was seducing it.

Her gaze locked on Madeline. “Welcome to my home, ladies.”

Madeline opened her mouth. Closed it. Whispered to Maggie, “Okay. Either we’re about to be recruited into a very elite crime ring… or I’ve just had a dark religious experience.”

Maggie leaned in, equally entranced. “She looks like she kills men and wears their confidence as perfume.”

The woman chuckled, low and smooth. “I assume you have questions. I may have answers. Or I may not. Depends on how interesting you turn out to be.”

Madeline blinked. “Oh, we’re fascinating,” she said, voice a touch too high. “We have trauma and matching raincoats.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “That remains to be seen. I’m called Norma. And yes, that’s a name, not a title—though I’ve earned a few of those too.”

Madeline’s brain misfired. “Is this like… an interview? An initiation? Or… a seduction?”

Norma’s gaze slid to Maggie like a cat acknowledging an old toy it wasn’t quite finished playing with.

“Still bringing me strays, Mags?”

“She’s not a stray,” Maggie said smoothly. “She’s the one I told you about.”

“Hmm.” Norma took another slow sip of her whiskey. “Pretty. Nervous. Likely to cry during interrogation. Not exactly inspiring confidence.”

“I don’t cry during interrogations,” Madeline said indignantly. Then paused. “Well. Not loudly.”

Norma smirked. “We’ll see.”

She stood slowly, her leather outfit creaking with authority, and crossed the room with the slow grace of someone who had either murdered people in this very space—or gotten someone else to do it for her.

She stopped in front of Madeline, tilting her head as if appraising a particularly fragile Fabergé egg.

“So,” Norma said, “you want someone dead.”

“I didn’t say that,” Madeline said quickly.

“You sat in my chair, in my home, blindfolded, after being delivered here by a man who doesn’t blink. That’s not what I would define as a social call. That’s desperation.”

Madeline opened her mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. “Okay, yes. Desperation. Maybe a sprinkle of rage. Possibly an emotional cocktail involving betrayal, Chardonnay, and a Pinterest board titled Revenge Chic.”

Norma arched an eyebrow. “Cute. Who?”

Madeline swallowed. “My husband.”

“Of course,” Norma said, turning away with a sigh like she’d seen it a thousand times. “Always the husband.”

She strolled back to her chair, took her seat with queenly precision, and crossed her legs again.

“Tell me everything. From the beginning. And don’t embellish. I’ll know.”

Madeline blinked. “Do you, like… have a lie detector hidden under the chaise?”

“No. I have taste.” Norma’s smile curled. “And the ability to spot bullshit faster than your husband can unzip his pants for his secretary.”

Maggie leaned forward, calm as ever. “She’s got the details, Norma. She’s just… new.”

“New doesn’t scare me,” Norma said. “Stupid does.”

She took another drink and gestured lazily toward Madeline. “Start talking, posh Barbie. If I’m going to clean up your mess, I need to know how deep this s**t runs.”

Madeline glanced at Maggie, who gave a tiny nod of encouragement.

“Okay,” Madeline said, drawing in a breath, her voice trembling just enough to betray the storm brewing beneath. “So here’s the thing. I married a man who was handsome, sure—but a walking disaster in a tailored suit. Unsuccessful, emotionally bankrupt, and somehow still convinced the world owed him something.”

Her eyes flicked toward Norma, steady now. Fierce.

“I spent millions trying to build him up. I paid for his dreams, his debts, his plastic surgeries. I gave him everything—everything—because I thought that’s what love looked like. Sacrifice. Support. Blinding yourself to every red flag because he said you were ‘his whole world’ while he was out buying jewelry for the woman he met on a flight to Miami.”

Norma tilted her head, interested now.

Madeline’s voice dropped, low and sharp.

“And then last week… I caught him. Outside a café. Holding some girl’s face like she was a miracle—like she hadn’t just unzipped her knockoff dress and climbed into the life I paid for. And the best part? He used my Amex to buy her a Louis Vuitton purse. Limited edition. I have the receipts.”

She paused, breathing harder now. Her jaw clenched.

“She’s not the first. There’ve been others. So many I stopped counting. Secret apartments. Weekend ‘business trips.’ I even found a bottle of Chanel No. 5 in our guest bathroom and I’m allergic to Chanel No. 5.”

Madeline’s eyes burned with clarity—clearer than they’d been in years.

“I was the bank. The wife. The fool in heels. But not anymore.”

She sat back slowly, eyes still locked on Norma’s.

“I don’t want a divorce. I want a reckoning.”

Norma smiled, slow and sharp, like a cat who’d just found a bird with a limp wing. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

She leaned forward, the leather of her corset creaking ever so slightly as she placed her whiskey down on a nearby table.

“So, you don’t want justice,” she said, tilting her head, “you want poetry. You want his downfall to taste like your triumph. Delicious. Messy. Memorable.”

Madeline didn’t speak, but the way she sat—spine straight, fists clenched in her lap—said yes loud enough.

Norma continued, as if running through a very glamorous, very illegal mental catalog. “We could keep it clean—financial ruin, social humiliation. I know someone who can empty offshore accounts with nothing but a Starbucks Wi-Fi signal and a grudge. Poof. He’s back to cashing in reward points for ramen noodles.”

Maggie snorted softly.

“Or,” Norma said, her voice dropping silkily, “we could make it personal. There’s an actress I know. Stunning. Manipulative. Fluent in three languages, all of them seductive. She could sweep him off his feet, promise him everything he ever wanted… and then ghost him right before a fake wedding in Bali. Maybe leak a few tastefully devastating photos to the press while we’re at it.”

Madeline blinked. “Wait—do you just… keep a Rolodex of chaos agents?”

Norma’s smile grew wider. “Darling, you don’t thrive in this line of work by being disorganized.”

She stood now, slowly pacing the room with the grace of someone who had definitely had someone else killed but made it look like a boating accident.

“Or,” she added, pausing dramatically, “we go classic. Subtle sabotage. Untraceable misfortune. His brakes fail. His mistress suddenly files a restraining order. The wrong text lands in the right inbox. The type of things that make him paranoid. Desperate. Alone.”

She turned back, gaze lingering on Madeline, her voice softening like a velvet knife, reading her like a well-worn novel. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she plucked a cigarillo from a crystal tray and lit it with the kind of elegance that made arson look like an art form.

“But,” she said, exhaling smoke in a perfect ring, “there’s a fourth option.”

Madeline stilled. Even Maggie shifted slightly beside her.

Norma’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, rich and honeyed. “It’s my personal favorite. Clean. Final. No messy headlines, no drawn-out drama.”

She stepped closer now, her heels barely making a sound on the polished floor.

“They disappear. Quietly. No fuss. One day, he’s sipping an overpriced espresso, plotting his next betrayal… and the next, he’s gone. Like smoke in the wind. No body. No clues. Just… a question mark in a tailored suit.”

Madeline’s breath hitched. Maggie’s jaw tensed, but she didn’t speak.

Norma smiled, slow and lethal. “And here’s the best part—people rarely look too hard when a man like that vanishes. The world doesn’t mourn manipulators. The only ones who notice are the ones who’ve also been using him.”

She leaned in slightly, her perfume a mix of danger and decadence.

“The question is… how far are you willing to go?”