The sad woman had ordered a drink with extra whipped cream because she felt like rewarding herself tonight. She wasn’t sure what for, since the assignment had not yet been carried out, but she knew that she liked whipped cream and that’s what mattered. On nights like these—when the moon outside was big and bright and it was far too cold to be autumn—the coffee shops were only occupied by the likes of herself, some teenage girls, and the barista. Tonight, there was only the sad woman and the haggard employee.

She watched the employee build the foamy cream into a small mountain on her drink. The grayish mixture in the cup looked more unappetizing than usual, packed with enough ice cubes to make her shiver. But as the barista fixed the plastic lid in place, she called out, “Annabelle,” and that was enough to make the sad woman’s spirits soar. 

“Thank you,” she said, taking the cold drink into her hands. Though the black ink was smudged, she could still make out the letters written on the side of the cup. She smiled.

Outside, the cold struck her like a blow. The coffee was bitter, numbing, and mostly ice—she loved it. Her scarf clung to her face, damp with her breath; her boots crunched in the premature snow. She imagined, momentarily, that she was an ordinary adult taking a stroll in the night. 

I got back from drinking with my friends and I needed to clear my head, so here I am, taking a loop around the block. While she walked, she filled in the details of her story, like the names of the friends and what drink she had, and what her plans were for the rest of the night. 

When she arrived at Dr. Lopez’s house, she had already drained half her drink. The doctor’s home was drafty and gigantic, the kind of home that the sad woman might admire in awe on any other day. She set down the cup on Dr. Lopez’s dresser. The old man lay as still as stone in bed, watching her with glazed eyes. She stood over him. His chest rose and fell in a stuttery rhythm, like a broken car engine. They might as well have a little heart and let him die, she thought. The coffee had only cheered her up temporarily, and now her mood sagged. It was always houses like these, victims like these, so quiet and empty that they infected her too. 

“You know, the baristas are the only ones who call me Annabelle,” she said to Dr. Lopez. “I think I would want to be friends with a barista someday. Because they’re so sweet, you know.” Then again, she was not exactly the best representation of an Annabelle. A woman named Annabelle might be sitting on a park bench right now, or dancing at a party, or holding hands with a lover. Not standing over a dying man with a knife. 

“What do you think, Dr. Lopez?” she asked. Of course, he said nothing. She sighed and killed him quietly. On her way out, she grabbed her drink and continued sipping it. 

The moon was now hidden behind a shroud of clouds and she felt even more disheartened. Maybe it wasn’t so ridiculous sometimes to wonder if society and nature were working against her—stealing her moon, trapping her in this tedious job. She slipped into the identity of Annabelle until she got home. Annabelle had a pretty smile. She had a Golden Retriever called Biscuit and a silver Honda Civic. This type of weather got her a bit down, but she didn’t let it ruin her mood like some other women did.

At home, the sad woman rinsed out the plastic cup, dried it with a towel, and placed it in the stack of her other plastic cups, which had grown very tall. The marker usually rubbed off, but on lucky days there would be a letter L or N still visible on the plastic. Today was brutally unlucky; barely the last E remained. She stripped out of her work clothes and sat on the couch for a smoke. 

The tabby cat watched her from the corner. She said, “If I disappeared right now, they would kill me, wouldn’t they?” She imagined the cat responding—Of course they’d kill you—and breathed out a long wisp of smoke. 

“I think I want to buy a house in the suburbs,” she said, “with a big yard and a driveway. Enough of the city. I’ll have two Honda Civics and I’ll drive out at night with lots of friends and one or two handsome guys.” The cat blinked and then slipped out of sight. The sad woman closed her eyes. For now, she only wanted to sleep. The higher-ups might spring a midnight job on her, but she couldn’t accept it if she was knocked out. 

Death sometimes tempted her. After witnessing the same crying and begging time and time again, she might have learned to properly fear it. But the more she thought about it, the more she came to realize that death was just the better, longer version of a nap. In death, there was no thinking or daydreaming or working. There was just silence. And yet she thought about the Golden Retriever which she had not yet adopted, and all the drinks and outings she’d be missing out on if she died right now. Maybe in twenty years she would be ready.

She fell asleep there on the couch, and in the morning she woke up to the smell of smoke; sometime during the night her cigarette had dropped from her fingers and singed a hole in the cushion. With a fresh cigarette in her mouth, she opened the letter that the higher-ups had delivered overnight and studied the assignment. 8:30 PM. The target: a businessman with a taste for scenic views. It would be quick. And so she met the man in his car that night, where he’d parked it on a bluff with a beautiful view of the moon. It would be a lovely spot for a picnic with friends.

The businessman’s first words were, “It won’t happen again, I promise.” He was young, with harsh features that harbored all sorts of ambitions, though right now there was only terror. He was the kind of man that the sad woman’s employers hated the most. “Please don’t hurt me. You look like a nice girl. There’s five hundred in my wallet—”

“Mr. King, what are your thoughts on baristas?” asked the sad woman, tapping the dashboard with her blade. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Lovely people, right? At first I thought I might just befriend one, but then it struck me: why not become a barista myself? Though I would need to buy a house first, as they don’t get paid very well.”

Mr. King gaped at her. He quickly said, “Well, of course, of course. Houses are so expensive these days. So how about I give you a little sum, just enough to get yourself a nice place on the lake or the seashore—anywhere that suits your fancy. How does that sound? Just forget all about this. Please.”

“It’s true that I’d love that,” sighed the woman, “but that wouldn’t work at all. I belong to the boss and that means no buying houses with scoundrels’ money.” She gazed up at the moon, which glowed so gently that she felt she might be lulled to sleep. “If I got a job at a coffee shop and changed my name, moved somewhere far away from here, could they still find me, Mr. King? I’d take nothing with me that they could sniff up. Just a suitcase and my cat.” Mr. King was watching her with wide eyes. Tap. Tap. Tap. “I could slip away. Right, Mr. King?

“Yes. Yes! Of course you could,” he said. “I support your endeavor, miss. You should follow your dreams. Don’t let anybody stop you.”

And the sad woman smiled, almost tearful. “Will you call me Annabelle, Mr. King?” 

There was a muted click as Mr. King fumbled with the door and fell backward out of the car. The woman’s smile fell. She climbed out, watching him stumble down the empty street. Oh, dear, she thought. Oh, dear. It only took her a few seconds to close the distance. He was breathing heavily, his tie fluttering like a kite tail, and crying out, “Help me, help me, help me, help me.” She brought him to the ground with a thud and slit his throat. Blood spattered on her face, like summer rain. 

As she dragged the body back to the car, restlessness tore her up inside. She couldn’t stay like this any longer. But where would she even go? She didn’t have any money. She only had this knife, and the job to which it tethered her.

At the edge of the bluff, she took out the box of cigarettes, her second of the day, and stuck one between her lips. “‘How was your day, Annabelle?’” she murmured lightheartedly. “Oh, it was a bit gloomier than usual. Once I have a smoke I’ll be fine, though.” She lit the cigarette, then sucked in gratefully. There were a few red fingerprints on the box, smudged. In one harsh movement, she hurled it over the cliff. 

She took a moment to breathe before advancing to the edge. Down below, big waves crashed against the rocks, and somewhere lost in the foamy water were her cigarettes. Her hand moved to the knife resting inside her jacket. Even in the dark, her employers’ symbol was still visible on the blade, a detailed series of groovings that were now partially filled with blood. 

She plucked the cigarette from her mouth and extinguished it on the logo. “What are you doing, Annabelle?” she sighed. Then she threw it over the bluff. Maybe there would be a splash, some sort of visible or audible confirmation that would allow her to release the air trapped in her lungs. But the night was dark, and there was only the sound of crashing waves. She turned and headed back towards the road. 

She walked until she reached town. Despite the early hour, the lights in the local coffee shops were on, and she entered the first one she saw. The barista asked for her name. 

“My name is Annabelle,” she said, and by then she could no longer hold back her tears. The other customers were eyeing her—a strange woman with blood on her clothes—but she found that she could not stop smiling. At last, how good did it feel?

Her apartment was waiting for her, a picture frozen in time. But it was not hers anymore—it belonged to a stranger, filled with that person’s clothes and food and bed. The sad woman packed her favorite dress into the suitcase, her toothbrush, and a can of tuna fish. She was going to go shopping in the city today, and when night fell, she planned to hit the bar. She shut the door behind her, scooping the tabby cat into her arms. It was a lovely morning.