“Mrs. White?”
“Yes?” Eva jerked her eyes up.
“I think you would be a great candidate to head up the committee organizing the food drive.”
Eva pushed down her revulsion at the woman’s sickly sweet tone and plastered a smile on her face. “I think you’re right. Food drives are near and dear to my heart.”
It wasn’t a lie. Back in Sicily, she’d made sure nobody who lived in her village ever went hungry.
“Wonderful,” Krystal said. “I’ll mark you down as chair. Remember, for every dollar donated to the Santa Monica food shelf, Tilly Conway’s mother will match it with an equal donation to our school fundraiser.”
It was a totally fucked up way to raise money, but if it meant that a Los Angeles food shelf was able to benefit from some of the wealthy families in the school—even in a convoluted way—Eva was all for it. She’d hacked into Krystal’s bank account last year just to make sure the woman wasn’t depositing most of the fundraising money into her own account but, surprisingly, all the money raised went straight back to the school.
“So, I can count on you?” Krystal asked.
Eva nodded.
“You are now the food drive chair.”
“Fantastic,” Eva said, matching the blonde woman’s fake excited tone. “And Matthew and I will match the food donations, as well.”
Krystal beamed. “That’s so generous of you.”
But Eva wasn’t done speaking. “But I think in our case, we’ll match the donation with an equal one that will also go to the food shelf.”
“That’s a brilliant idea!” Nikos said. He was one of the dad’s Eva had become friendly with over the past year. His son, Ricardo, was a sweet kid.
Krystal’s face fell, but she quickly rallied. “Wonderful. I’ll let the principal know.”
“Fantastic,” Eva repeated and smiled widely.
Kill them with kindness. It had been her motto the past ten years. It was a viable alternative to killing women like Krystal Diamond. But Eva had left that part of her behind when she fled Sicily. That way of life felt like a vague memory—something another person had experienced, somebody she’d read about in a book. So, Krystal Diamond was safe. For now.
The woman had apparently kept her maiden name, which was about the only thing Eva approved of about the pretentious PTA head. But what kind of name was Krystal Diamond, anyway? Jesus. It had to be a stripper name. Or maybe a porn star name.
Eva shifted in her uncomfortable plastic chair. Eva wasn’t overweight, and was, in fact, very fit from a daily home workout modeled after the Navy SEAL team’s training. But she was Italian and did have curves—especially on her backside. Her ass simply wouldn’t fit into this tiny, orange plastic chair made for a fifth grader.
A few seats down Nikos shifted uncomfortably, as well. He caught her eye and smiled. She smiled back.
Luckily, Krystal Diamond had missed it all. Smiling was forbidden unless the smile was directed her way. But Krystal was at the front of the room, distracted with her head down, going through a thick file folder. Yeah, definitely a fake name. Like her boobs. No way they were the real deal. No. Fucking. Way. No one with boobs that big could have a butt small enough to fit neatly into the little orange plastic chair, could they? No self-respecting Malibu trophy wife would go that big, even when your husband was the top plastic surgeon to the stars. Eva frowned. Maybe that was it—Dr. Andrew Wyatt used his wife as a model for his porn star clientele. Eva could just imagine him waving his skinny little arms and saying, “Allow me to show you my work first hand. Krystal, darling? Please show these women your tits.”
Eva snuffled back a laugh.
Nikos shot her a glance of alarm but then winked. He was her age and attractive. She knew it was his Greek heritage that appealed to her. Even though she’d married a hot American man with blonde hair and blue eyes, she couldn’t deny that men from her part of the world had an undeniable, earthy sexiness about them.
That diversity was one reason she’d enrolled Lorenzo and Alessandra in this elite school. Though she had to put up with fuckwads like Krystal, the student population ran the gamut from Somali-Americans to Japanese-Americans. She didn’t want her children to feel like misfits in Beverly Hills schools. But she had to admit, the Rembrandt Academy still didn’t exactly provide a realistic slice of American life—every family with a kid in the school was filthy fucking rich.
Speaking of that, why did they even need to do fundraisers, anyway?
Krystal droned on at the front of the classroom, organizing committees and assigning tasks to the thirty parent volunteers crowding the room.
In a way, Eva admired Krystal’s leadership skills. And whatever her faults, Eva could not deny that Krystal’s son, Yates, was possibly the sweetest child on the planet.
Poor thing couldn’t help who his mother was. And he couldn’t help his unfortunate name. Who the fuck named a baby Yates? Yates Wyatt sounded like a poet wearing a dinner jacket while riding a donkey in the old west. But the kid was a sweetie. His mother wanted him to be a doctor like his father, but he claimed he wanted to be an opera singer. Jesus Christ. The kid wasn’t even out of elementary school, and his parents were already planning out every second of every year until he was thirty!
Alessandra had befriended Yates in the first grade until Krystal had put the kibosh on their playdates. Every time Eva had reached out to her about it, Krystal made some excuse. She usually claimed Yates was busy with Little Mozart or Chinese lessons or some other bullshit. But every time Alessandra asked him about it the next day, the poor kid said he’d gone straight home and stared at the iPad all evening while his mother locked herself in her office.
Alessandra
