Free Generation of Liars by Camilla Marks

CNIS card with your new
address printed on it.”
    I snatched the card from her hand
and turned to Rabbit. “Well, are you coming?”
    “Me?” Rabbit asked.
    “Forget it,” I said. “I wouldn’t
want to pry you away from the scenic view.” My eyes glowered at
Cleopatra, well more precisely at her wetsuit, which fit against her body like
reptile skin. I hopped off the boat and paced towards the building. My new
apartment was on rue de Seine in the 6 th arrondissement. The
building’s white stone facing made it stand radiantly against the dusk sky, and
its height created an elegant distinction from the surrounding buildings. I
counted the humongous windows up at least a dozen stories skyward, noting the
entire bottom stratum was made up of a clothing boutique and a boulangerie ;
the windows of both were already blackened for the night. 
    I walked to the storefront and ran
my fingers along the front Plexiglas window, leaving a streak of glistening
fingerprints. From behind the glass, a mannequin stared back with painted eyes.
The mannequin had alabaster skin and she was crowned with a wig, soft like spun
silk, and stylishly posed in a tan trench coat and a pair of ultra-pink kitten
heels. It all looked about my size.
    I reached for my snub-nose revolver
and shot the lock on the shop door. I slithered inside the boutique and
stripped the mannequin naked. I slid the shoes off her feet and tiptoed away
from the scene with everything tucked in the nook of my arm.
    *   
*    *
    I balanced the stolen goods in my
arm as I twisted the keyhole of my new flat. The inside opened up to a gleaming
kitchen with white marble floors and expansive rows of scrolling cabinets. The
entire back wall of the apartment was enfaced with a two-story hyaline window,
which caused moonlight to spray into the living space and bathe over the
furniture and walls. I shut the door behind me and let the items in my hand
drop to the floor. I approached the foot of the metal spiral staircase, turning
my legs into the curve of each step, which led to the loft that hosted the
sleeping area. The space was bare but for a four-poster bed, its spindles as
white as tusks, with sheets of lacey ivory draped from each corner. I
approached the bed and climbed on top of it, rolling onto my back and allowing
my hair to fall glamorously down over the edge. I felt the edge of my phone run
over my hip bone from inside my pocket and I pulled it out and laid it on the
bed. I wondered what was taking Motley so long to check in with me.
    I hopped off the bed and descended
the stairs into the kitchen. The space was so airy that I could hear the echo
of my own footsteps and it made me uncomfortable, like I was my own phantom.
You make a lot of enemies working for a guy like Motley, and creepy echoes were
just about the last sound I was comfortable with. I opened the refrigerator and
saw that Motley had thought to stock it with a gallon of milk and a bag of French
press coffee beans, and the best part was that the freezer contained a pint of
chocolate ice cream. I smiled because it meant that he probably wasn’t that mad
at me, after all. I headed to the bathroom and flicked on the lights to check
myself out in the mirror. The bandage on my arm had transposed to a bloody rust
color. I eyed the bathtub, a white porcelain basin suspended by a set of four
porcelain claws over a pristine marble floor. I swiveled the brass lever to
start the water and shook myself out of my clothes. I pulled off my stocking
and let the note that held my confession fall onto the glassine marble.
    The water felt like hot knives over
my sore muscles and I closed my eyes and let the misty steam envelope me. After
toweling off, I searched my bag and pulled out all the makeup I could find. I
applied a set of feathery false lashes, red-brick blush, and ruby red lipstick.
I stepped into the stolen pink kitten heels and wrapped myself inside the tan
trench coat, securing it onto my body by cinching the