I took a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet.
Then I leaned slightly forward and let it drift to the floor near Brittany’s feet.
“Sweetheart,” I said, “I think you’ve dropped something.”
She looked down immediately.
“What?”
She spotted the bill, reached for it, and slipped it into her handbag.
“Thanks.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“You’re welcome.”
She had not even asked whether the money belonged to her.
Harold watched the exchange with an expression of complete disbelief.
“Martha,” he whispered, “I am beginning to suspect you have a plan.”
“Harold, I am seventy-three. Plans are one of the few luxuries I can still afford.”
Brittany leaned back again, allowing her hair to spill over the seat.
That was when I opened the slime.
I did not throw it at her. I did not touch her head or pull at her extensions.
Instead, I took a small amount and worked it into the ends of the hair that she had deliberately left hanging across my tray table.
