“Nope. It’s a closed file, but I did askthatquestion, because I knew you’d want to know. I can only assure you he is one bad dude. It pays triple your normal fee. Once you accept, I’ll send you the package.”
The “package” tells me how to find the person to kill. It’s conveyed in various ways, usually with stunning creativity. The pharmacist’s, for example, arrived via a note tucked into flowers delivered to my doorstep yesterday morning, supposedly from a wedding client thanking me for helping her plan the perfect event. I’m convinced whoever is in charge of these messages is a genius. The point is to not create a traceable pattern, to not set up coded jobs to be intercepted by the authorities, or anyone else for that matter. And, of course, to not tip off the person who needs killing.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, thinking. Once you accept a job, it’s yours. And I want to say yes so, so badly. Iwant to step into this deeper world, be challenged by a job instead of playingCandy Crushon my phone while I watch a local pharmacist. Killing her will be fun, but I can probably knock on the door of her apartment and walk right in, making my job as easy as can be. But the idea of a realchallenge—well, who wouldn’t want that?
It’s funny—I felt satisfied until I realized there was something I was missing out on. And now I want it with wild abandon.
“You’re sure they’re bad?” I ask.
“The worst.” The short, high-to-low-pitched tune ofdoo-doo-doo-dooas Mario dies.
I smile, imagining killing my future mark so theatrically.
“I’ll take it.”
Chapter Eight
When I rejoin Brian atthe table, I must be beaming.
“Everything okay?” he asks in an uncertain voice, clutching his beer like maybe he’ll need it. It’s not his fault—I often have RKF, or resting killer face. We don’t smile a lot, and when we do, it’s rarely for something good.
“Everything’s great. I just found out I got a job.”
“Oh.”
I remember a second too late I was supposed to be using the ladies’ room, not answering work calls. “It was a text,” I say. “I checked with Piper to make sure the girls were okay, and it came through.”
He nods in understanding, gives me a grin that reaches his eyes. He leans forward, adjusts his glasses. “That’s really great, babe. I’m so glad your business is going well. I wasn’t sure, after you had the girls, if you’d want to keep working, and…” Brian shrugs. “I’m just glad you’re happy.”
“Thanks.” I adjust the cloth napkin on my lap, try to not think about how I actuallydofeel bad for lying to him. I don’t usually have much of a conscience about such things. I’m not a pathological liar or anything—I’ve just never had a problem not telling thetruth when it’s convenient. But something about us creating this life together over the past decade makes me want to be honest with him. Or at least as honest as I can be.
It wasn’t always this way—when we first got married, I lied all the time. He was a convenience, after all. A guy I met who didn’t irritate me, who sometimes seemed to have this elusive quality ofsomething—I wasn’t sure what—that drew me to him. Then one day I realized I actually loved him. That I had something I didn’t want to lose. I’d grown up loving my mom and dad, my siblings—but I thought I’d never love anyone else. People like me weren’t graced with that ability. All of my mother’s psychology books said so. Then I realized those books were from the 1980s and wildly outdated. That actually, like so many things, psychopathy exists on a spectrum. In fact, the termpsychopathitself is outdated, mostly used by the media to shock viewers and readers. In reality, people like me do have emotions—even if they are blunted. But we are capable of love.
A twinge of sadness hits me, but I try to push it back: Brian will never know the truth about me, who Nadia Davis really is. Neither will my girls. Theycan’tknow, not only because it would put their lives in danger, but because it would end our family for good, and I need them to keep me sane, normal,okay.
The one thing that does land me on the psychopathic spectrum is an inner pressure that builds up, a need todosomething, to feelmore, to step beyond this fuzzy, numbed-out version of the world I otherwise experience. For me, that means killing. Only ending a life releases that pressure, lets me come back down to a version of myself my family knows and loves. I’m well aware they wouldn’t love the other side of me—the part where a monster who lives inside comes out to play.
I take a big gulp of beer, suddenly feeling the burden of thisBig Job. I can do it, just like I told John. Iwantto do it. And I already said yes, so it’s done.
I glance around, hoping our appetizer will make its way over soon. Fried pickles might not be everyone’s favorite way to start a meal, but they are definitely mine. And right now, half a beer in and buzzing with excitement, I could use calories.
“How’s the PTA going?”
“I have a thing tomorrow morning—” As if our server heard my thoughts, the sizzling plate arrives, accompanied by myriad dipping sauces. I snatch up the ranch, the only one worth using.
Brian chuckles across the table. “Hungry?”
“Yes,” I grumble, scrunching my nose playfully at him.
“You know, the last time you were this excited about fried pickles you were—” His words die off. I meet his gaze across the table. “You’re not—”
“No!” I almost choke, suddenlyverysober. “I am not pregnant.” All the same, my stomach wobbles the way I imagine every woman of reproductive age’s does when anyone so much as suggests she possibly has a collection of cells taking up space rent-free in her abdomen. “Don’t even say that.”
I barely contain a derisive snort—the last thing we need is another kid. Then I’dreallynot get any work done. Sneaking out to kill someone in the middle of the night is infinitely more difficult when a baby is latched on to your boob.
I’ve eaten two whole pickle chips when I realize Brian hasn’t said anything, and I look up, chewing through the crunchy bit. He’s watching me, expressionless.
“What?”
