Killing Them With Pure Honey Chapter 1

I was born with a tongue so honeyed you’d think it had been pickled in sugar syrup for eight centuries.

In third grade, the prettiest girl in class snatched the last chicken tender straight off my tray. I didn’t cry. I carried my empty cardboard boat up to the lunch lady, widened my eyes, and sighed with theatrical devotion:

"Ma’am, your breading is an absolute work of art. She literally risked in-school suspension just to get a taste of your culinary genius."

The lunch lady charged across the cafeteria brandishing a stainless-steel ladle, chased the girl halfway to the kickball field, and piled four extra tenders onto my plate.

In eighth grade, the golden boy of the class crossed off his own name and wrote mine for the entire month’s detention hall cleanup. I stood beside the homeroom teacher’s desk, hands clasped, marveling aloud:

"Mrs. Barlow really knows how to cultivate natural leaders. He’s already making executive decisions for the whole class without bothering you for permission."

The teacher fell dead silent for three seconds, summoned him to her office, and by fourth period, he had been assigned sole stewardship of the boys' restrooms through November.

At seventeen, the Aldridge family finally tracked me down and brought me home to their sprawling brick estate in Greenwich.

On my very first night, the boy who had lived my life—the golden, adopted replacement named Emmett—slipped an antique diamond necklace into the bottom of my duffel bag. Within twenty minutes, he was in tears, sobbing to our parents that I had stolen an heirloom to frame him.

My older sister, Sophia, instantly stepped in front of him like a human shield. My parents looked at me, their expressions hardening, waiting for an explanation.

I didn’t flinch. I just looked at them with wide, glowing admiration.

"Dad has such impeccable taste," I said, my voice smooth as silk. "A piece of fine jewelry like that definitely has an insured serial number registered with the jeweler."

I turned to my mother. "And Mom runs a Fortune 500 company with terrifying precision; there’s no way the second-floor hallway doesn't have high-definition security feeds."

Finally, I beamed at my sister. "And Sophia graduated top of her class at Andover. There’s no world in which someone with her intellect can’t review the footage and see who slipped into my room."

Three heavy, gilded crowns, placed squarely on their heads.

My parents and sister visibly blinked, their outrage suddenly short-circuiting against their own vanity.

"He’s right," Mom said, clearing her throat. "Accusations require evidence. Let’s pull the hallway footage."

Mom called for Henderson, the estate manager. Sophia stepped up to the terminal to cue the playback.

A second before the video popped up, Emmett threw his entire body across the console and yanked the power cord from the wall.

"You can't watch it!" he shrieked.

Every head in the room snapped toward him.

My smile only widened, dripping with syrup.

"Look at Emmett," I murmured softly. "Such a considerate boy. He’s even worried the security monitor might get overtired."

* * *

Emmett’s shout hung in the room like a foul odor. The living room went dead silent.

Even he realized what he had just done. His fingers remained frozen around the plastic plug, his knuckles pale, but he recovered with terrifying speed. The tears welled up instantly, glassy and photogenic.

"I... I only did it because Jackie just got home," he stammered, his chin quivering. "A grainy security camera is so easy to misinterpret. I didn't want him to feel alienated over a misunderstanding..."

Sophia immediately shifted, planting herself between Emmett and the dark screen. "He’s just trying to look out for you, Jackie."

I placed a hand over my heart, looking at her with boundless reverence.

"Sophia, your capacity for grace is truly breathtaking. When he yanks out an electrical cord, it’s tender-hearted charity; when an antique necklace materializes in my canvas duffel, it’s grand larceny. You have such an inspiring judicial philosophy—it strictly inconveniences your actual relatives."

Sophia’s jaw clenched, her face darkening.

Dad cleared his throat into his fist. "Plug it back in. Let’s see the tape."

The power hummed back to life, but the screen flickered into static.

Emmett let out a tiny, imperceptible exhale of relief.

Henderson grimaced. "The sudden surge corrupted the local video cache, sir."

I pivoted toward the gray-haired estate manager, beaming with sheer professional respect. "Henderson has managed this entire estate for twenty years. My parents trust you with millions of dollars in property every day, and I know for a fact it isn't because you give up after one sentence."

Henderson’s spine snapped straight as a rod. "The young master is quite right. The local drive may be scrambled, but our security network syncs to a secondary cloud server every ninety seconds."

Emmett’s sniffle hitched mid-sob.

On the cloud playback, the footage was crystal clear. While the moving staff were carrying my bags upstairs, Emmett had slipped into my guest room, bent low over my duffel, and lingered for several seconds. You couldn't make out the necklace itself, but the timestamp was an indisputable match.

Mom’s expression turned icy. "Emmett. What were you doing in his room?"

"I... I wanted to help him unpack..."

"Such an industrious soul," I chimed in, practically clapping my hands together in awe. "Your own bedroom is in such disarray the maids haven't finished cleaning it in three days, yet you found time to dig through my dirty laundry. Mother Teresa herself would surrender her halo to you."

Dad couldn't stop himself; he turned his head to cough, muffling a dry chuckle.

Sophia frowned, crossing her arms defensively. "This only proves he walked into the room. It doesn't prove he placed the necklace."

I nodded solemnly. "Sophia’s rigor is unmatched. And by that exact logic, it doesn't prove I stole it either, does it?"

She pressed her lips together, utterly trapped by her own rhetoric.

In the end, Mom instructed Henderson to send the piece out for forensic fingerprint dusting. Until the lab returned the results, the word 'thief' was strictly forbidden in the house.

Next came the living arrangements.

The second floor was a monument to seventeen years of Emmett’s upbringing: a grand piano alcove, a personal gym, an oil painting studio, every room customized to his whim. The space reserved for me was a bleak, windowless ground-floor guest room tucked behind the pantry.

Dad looked distinctly uncomfortable. "We’ll have an interior contractor in tomorrow to draw up plans."

Emmett’s eyes went rimmed with red again. "If Jackie wants my room, I can move down here. I don't mind."

Sophia’s heart broke for him on cue. "Emmett has lived in that room for seventeen years."

I waved my hands frantically, horrified by the suggestion.

"Oh, please don't. Dad designed that suite like a private palace—anyone can see how deeply he loves his children. If I were to swoop in and take it, wouldn't that make it seem like Dad only has enough paternal affection for one child at a time?"

Dad stiffened. He looked at me, caught off guard, and immediately picked up his phone to call the architect. He ordered the expansive, south-facing private library on the second floor converted into a suite for me by week's end.

At dinner, Dad reached across the table and personally placed a butterflied grilled prawn onto my plate.

I stared down at the porcelain, and a sudden, sharp sting pricked behind my nose.

It turned out flattery didn't just buy you leverage.

Sometimes, it bought you the first crumb of love you had waited seventeen years to receive:

"Eat more," Dad murmured quietly. "You're far too skinny."

Across the table, Mom asked what I wanted as a welcome-home gift.

I looked at her tailored blazer, her immaculate blowout, and spoke with solemn sincerity: "The fact that you carved out two hours from your schedule to have dinner with us is already a limited-edition gift, Mom. If I asked for anything else, it would be downright disrespectful to your market scarcity."

Mom tried to maintain her CEO composure, but the corners of her mouth twitched uncontrollably upward. Right there at the table, she texted her executive assistant to issue an unrestricted black card in my name.

Emmett let out a soft, delicate laugh. "Jackie is so gifted at flattering Mom."

"Hardly," I demurred, waving a modest fork. "It’s entirely because Mom’s brilliance is so overwhelming. You could sit a lump of granite in this chair, and within twenty minutes, her sheer executive aura would polish it into an emerald."

Mom burst out laughing. Even Sophia ducked her head to hide a cough of amusement.

Emmett squeezed his silverware so tightly his knuckles turned white. Then he lifted his chin, his eyes glittering.

"By the way, Jackie," he said sweetly, "I’ll drive you to St. Jude’s Prep tomorrow. Everyone in my class heard you were coming home, and they are simply dying to meet you."

When he said "dying", there was a sharp, feverish spark in his eyes.

I smiled right back.

"That sounds wonderful. I do love enthusiastic classmates."

Especially when their enthusiasm crashes directly into a brick wall.