A podcaster has decided to ruin my life, so I’m buying a chicken.

I make plans for this chicken as I sit in my cubicle at Walter J. Brown Investment Services, waiting to be fired. I stopped pretending to work two hours ago. Now I’m just staring at recipes on my phone, dreaming about sticking lemons up a chicken’s butt.

It’s an apology chicken, for my boyfriend.

It’s like that engagement chicken. The one women make to persuade their boyfriends to propose? Except this is a “sorry I didn’t tell you I’m the prime suspect in my friend’s murder” chicken.

Apology chicken, for short.

“Lucy?”

I look up from my phone to see my boss standing at the door of his office. He adjusts his tie and clears his throat.

“Could you come in for a minute?” he asks.

Finally. They clearly decided to fire me this morning. Glass office walls are a strange choice always, but especially when you have a meeting with three other managers, and none of them can stop glancing over at your assistant, whom they are clearly discussing, for the entire conversation.

“Sure.” I slide my phone into my pocket and follow him into his immaculate office.

I’m struck by how pristine it is, even after nearly a year of working for him. There’s nothing on the beige walls. No boxes piled in a corner. The desk is completely bare except for the monitor and the keyboard.

Every evening, when Jerry Howell walks out of his office, he leaves absolutely no evidence that he was ever there. He probably missed his calling as a serial killer.

Of course, he’s only in his midforties. Plenty of time to take up a new hobby.

I sit down in the chair on the other side of his desk and try to put a pleasant expression on my face. One that doesn’t betray the fact that I was calmly thinking about him murdering people.

(A side effect of being accused of murder is that you spend a lot of time thinking about it. You get used to it.)