Chapter 16
VIOLET
I can’t remember the last time I thought about homicide.
I mean, real, genuine, bone-splinting homicide.
The hire-a-contract-killer-and-wait-in-the-bushes-to-watch-it-go-down homicide.
The eat-popcorn-drink-a-beer-while-the-person’s-house-is-on-fire type of homicide.
That one.
Maybe it was high school.
Imagining that Heather Palmgreen had suddenly choked on one of the many jersey-covered c***s she’d sucked behind the bleachers before football games. Or maybe it was when I’d daydreamed that Greta—the nasty, scowling cafeteria lady from fourth period lunch—had smothered in her under-seasoned mashed potatoes.
I certainly never thought about it at work. I’d always been pretty lucky in that category.
When you spend enough time around a group of people, a dynamic grow
