Made in Malice (Corrupt Credence Book 1)
Made in Malice: Chapter 3

By the time the afternoon rolls around, I’ve convinced myself I imagined the entire conversation with the lawyer two nights ago and upturned my life for no reason. If it weren’t for the cash tucked into the fanny pack I picked up at Target yesterday, along with other wasted money purchases, like a new toothbrush and other travel crap, I would think I imagined the entire thing.

I spent a little time on my phone, looking up Astrid and Rory Devlin, but I found zilch on either of them, which really makes me think I’m insane for believing any of this.

Kirby was pretty shocked when I called to let him know I’d worked my last shift at Bobcat’s. He pleaded for me to reconsider for all of two seconds, then he was a jerk for me quitting without notice, which I understand. The worst part is, I might have quit a decent paying gig for nothing.

I haven’t heard from Virgil at all. There have been no deliveries of luggage, plane tickets, or itineraries to speak of. Maybe he’s just some guy who gets off on ruining people’s lives, but then why would he give me so much money? My thoughts circle again.

Just when I’m about to get my rump off the couch and put my meager stacks of clothes back in my closet, there’s a hard knock at the door. I rush over, but I don’t unlock it right away. “Who is it?”

“Delivery, I need a signature.”

I check the peephole to see a man in a dark jacket standing in front of the door, and nerves fill my stomach. Maybe I was hoping it was a lie. That would have been easier to cope with.

“Okay,” I reply and unlock the door. My eyes scan the bag in his hand. It’s from a designer store. This guy is lucky he didn’t get robbed, but then I take a long look at him and change my mind. He’s a big man, with a neck like a tree trunk and hands that look like meaty hammers.

He lifts an arm, extending a handheld electronic that looks like a phone in a bulky case. “Nova Devlin, you need to sign before I can bring the rest up.”

I look at the phone, only seeing an X and a line next to it.

“Your finger will do.” He nods to get me moving. I scribble my signature on the line, then hand it back, prompting him to turn over the heavy paper bag with the designer label on the side.

“I’ll be back with the rest,” he says, slipping the device into a pocket. When he leaves, I notice the door across the hall is cracked, and Junior’s mom is eyeing me with a look of disdain. She doesn’t try to hide her dislike for me or her snooping.

“What you be doing to get a delivery like that?”

“Nothing you’re implying,” I mutter under my breath. I usually try to play nice, since I don’t like to get into trouble with people who know where I live, but the last few days have either made me brave or stupid. Probably stupid.

She clicks her tongue at me but still doesn’t close her door. If we were neighborly, I might tell her I’m leaving for a little while, but I’m afraid she would use the info against me in some way, so I keep my mouth shut as the man returns, climbing the stairs with a box so large, I can’t even see his head anymore, just his beefy arms wrapped around the thing.

I immediately back into my apartment, thinking I don’t want him to set it down in the hall in case it’s too heavy for me to move. “One more trip,” he tells me after placing the box down on my threadbare carpet.

“Okay,” I agree slowly. This time, I wait just inside the door and only open it when I hear him coming up the stairs. He has two boxes this time, stacked on top of each other, making it nearly as large as the last load. He huffs and stands back to look around my apartment. I don’t bother examining him for his reaction. I know it’s a dump, so there’s no point in pretending it’s not.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. Do I tip him? Once the idea strikes, I dash over to my bag and rifle through my tip money to pull out a ten, then I reconsider and go for the twenty. It’s more than I would have ever given up before, but I didn’t have extra then.

“Thank you for hauling all this up here.” I extend my hand, feeling weird, even though I make a living on tips.

“You’re welcome.” He tilts his head as if I surprised him, then he lifts his hand in a stop gesture, halting me from giving him the money. “That’s been taken care of. Do you need a hand packing, or should I wait outside until you’re ready to go?” He clasps his hands in front of his body as if he’s standing at the ready.

“Help me pack?” I question, confused.

“Your flight leaves in three hours. You should take a look at the file.” He nods his dark head toward the bag I set on the counter.

“File?” I sound like an idiot with all these echoed half questions.

“Yes, I’m your escort.”

“My escort.” I roll my lips in to make sure I don’t repeat anything else.

“It’s in the file,” he reiterates.

I shuffle over to the bag and replace it filled with a few smaller boxes and one monogrammed envelope style folder that matches the designer label. The gold latch opens with a push of a button and a click. My mind cannot process how much this single item is probably worth, let alone what else is in the bags. The interior of the envelope contains several papers to sort through. While I’m glancing at the sheets, the man says, “You may call me Alden.”

I finally see a paper with his name and read through it briefly. “You’re my escort,” I say, looking at him in disbelief. I don’t even know what that means.

“Yes.” He’s still standing in the same spot. I’m not sure he even moved a muscle—and he has a lot of them—other than to speak.

“I don’t need an escort. I didn’t agree to one either,” I argue, knowing it’s not this guy’s fault, but I’m already overwhelmed, and I’m not happy about this little addition.

“You signed the contract,” he tells me, looking in my direction.

“What contract—Oh you… I thought I was signing for the packages.”

“You should always read anything you sign,” he warns belatedly.

“Let me guess, I’ll owe you five thousand bucks when this is over?”

“No, you are not financially beholden to me at all.”

“So you’re here to make sure I get on the plane and go to South Carolina?” I tap the papers on my thigh as my aggravation builds.

“Among other things,” he concedes.

“What other things?”

“I am your escort, your protector.” He says the words slowly, as if he thinks I’m dumb, or he’s finally catching on that I had no clue about any of this.

“My protector from what? Someone robbing me of all this crap?” I kick at one of the boxes.

His brows rise, but he doesn’t show any other sign of indulging me with an answer. “Where is your boyfriend?” He looks down the single short hallway.

It takes me a moment to figure out why he would be asking. I told Virgil I had a boyfriend.

“Not here. Virgil didn’t say anything about an escort,” I deflect, changing the subject.

“Is he going to be a problem?”

“No.” I cross my arms over my chest, curious what kind of a problem a boyfriend could be in this situation.

“Shall I wait outside, Miss Devlin?”

“Don’t bother, Junior’s momma would probably call the cops on you or try to get her kids to rob you.” I look him up and down. I doubt they would even have the nerve. Alden looks like he eats little children for breakfast with his protein shakes.

“Shall I help you pack?” He looks around, and I catch a strange expression on his face I can’t quite read. Maybe it’s disbelief.

“No, you can have a seat if you want to. I have to open these boxes. I’m guessing it’s luggage, but I’m hoping it’s not this same stuff.” I push the bag on the counter as I walk by to get a knife from the drawer to cut the tape.

“It’s not to your liking?” Alden questions.

“Are you kidding? Do you know how much this stuff costs? It’s a waste of money.”

“All this is supposed to come on a plane with me, but half of it is empty. Aren’t there limits to what you can bring?” I’m standing at the curb with Alden, grateful for his presence now as we wait for the oversized SUV Uber he ordered.

“Yes, I know, I watched you pack it. And not for you.”

I sort through his answers to my questions. “Who hired you?” I turn to face him.

He takes the time to look down at me before answering. “Your grandparents.” His dark eyes roam over my face as if he’s searching for something.

“Do you know them?”

He looks away. “Knowing them in your context suggests a familiarity that we do not share. I have worked for them for a year or two,” he hedges in a formal tone.

“You’ve met them though?”

“I have,” he answers, but he doesn’t volunteer anything else.

An older white suburban pulls up to the curb, and the passenger window rolls down, but not before Alden shifts so he’s standing in front of me. He takes this protector thing pretty seriously by the looks of it.

I lean around him to see a younger dude with acne ask, “You need me to open the back?”

“Wait for me here, Miss Devlin,” Alden tells me, then louder, he replies to the driver, “Yes.”

It only takes him a minute to load the trunk, suitcases, and other bags into the back of the SUV, then he returns to the curb and opens the rear passenger door, motioning for me to get in with a wave of his hand. I let him see my side-eye as I climb in and plop my rump on the seat.

“That your dad?” the guy asks, watching Alden jog around the other side in the rearview mirror.

“Hardly,” I reply softly as Alden slides in next to me. First, he doesn’t look that old, and second, he’s about a foot taller than me, and that’s just the beginning of our differences. His eyes and hair are a deep brown, while my hair could be called muddy blonde. When I was younger, it was nearly white, but that dulled by the time I was in third grade. My eyes are a funny blue green color that seem too bright for my pale skin, but they are the best thing I have going in the looks department, so I’ll take them.

“Airport?” the driver asks as if we didn’t already give him the destination on the app.

“Yes,” Alden answers for us.

Nervousness I was able to ignore when I was too focused on Alden’s appearance surges through my stomach. I can’t believe I’m about to get on a plane to meet people I didn’t even know existed three days ago. “I’m probably going to end up in a ditch somewhere,” I mumble, assuming no one will hear me over the man singing about how much he loves his truck on the radio.

“I’m here to prevent that or anything else, Miss Devlin,” Alden tells me, but his tone is flat. Maybe I offended him, and he thinks I don’t believe he could protect me. How the heck do I tell him I’m more worried about the stupid choices I’ve made up until this point than I am about him?

“Nova, you can call me Nova,” I murmur, then let my head fall back against the seat for the short ride.

“What do we do now?” I ask once we’re in the airport. Considering I didn’t know he would be with me, I’m relying pretty heavily on Alden.

“Have you ever flown commercial?” He pushes a trolley with all my luggage stacked on it, and I’m glad he’s the one doing it, because he gets lots of looks, and I can’t tell if it’s just him or the expensive brand that has everyone’s attention.

“I’ve never flown period,” I tell him softly, but he’s got super hearing, so I know he picked it up. He does a quick double take of the side of my face.

“It’s not that unusual,” I defend.

“Why didn’t you take the jet? It’s much nicer, and you wouldn’t have had to deal with all…this,” he sneers as he glances around the busy airport.

“This seemed like the safer bet. Call me crazy, but an uptight dude randomly showed up at my door with promises about grandparents who I thought died before I was born wanting to meet me, so I’m a little skeptical about his motives to get me on a plane halfway across the country.” I’m exaggerating about the distance, but it feels that way to me.

Alden slows to a stop, his arms jerking the trolley back so the trunk shifts. I turn to look at him. He has one brow raised, looking like that wrestler who turned into an actor but with a little more hair.

“What?” I ask, looking around when he doesn’t say anything. “You think I’m nuts for even going at all, don’t you?”

“Miss Devlin—”

“Nova,” I interject.

“I have no idea what to think,” he continues.

“Same page.” I gesture between us. “If you see me on the news next week, or a Walmart corkboard for missing people, it’ll be safe to assume I was an idiot.”