It’s normal for couples to argue. To disagree. The first time we ever fought, I was sure I’d ruined the one good thing I had going for me. Then I read a book about relationships, learned that the occasional fight is agoodthing. That, in fact, it’s often a sign of a relationship beingunhealthyif there’s no arguing, ever.
And that’s all this is, I tell myself. A small thing we will work through. He’s nearly forty—maybe it’s the beginning of a midlife crisis? Or he’s bored with his everyday life. I’ll encourage him to buy something—a newer BMW, maybe, or a boat; he’s always wanted one. I can give him extra attention, surprise him with a romantic weekend away. I could throw in some new lingerie—oh, he’dlovethat. Isn’t that what normal wives do?Cosmohas certainly suggested as much. Brian will realize what we have is perfect,that we already have everything we need, and this talk of another baby will stop.
Yes.That will do the trick.
I’ll handle it right after I carry out this Big Job. Like anything, this little issue with Brian can be solved with proper planning and execution of said plan.
I smile to myself: problem solved.
Chapter Twelve
I drop the girls offthe next morning and find a new route to the pharmacist’s clinic. By the time I get there, I’m out of coffee. My consumption has doubled since I got the package, trying to solve the question of who will next die by my hand. I risk visiting the same coffee shop drive-through Jennifer Patrick does and order the largest drip they offer, a whopping twenty ounces. Then I park in a lot one shop over to wait.
It’s important to vary my route, my reconnaissance spot; the worst thing is for a mark to notice you, to realize they’re being watched. It makes them do dumb things like leave town or remark to their spouse,I think someone’s following me, which never goes over well when they die two days later and the cops start asking questions.
Today, I sip my coffee and examine the package.
The poem. Orriddle, as I’ve come to think of it. Because that’s what it is, right? Something to figure out, to make sense of. When I’ve read it for the dozenth time, I pull out my work phone and swipe to the thread with Ian.
Nadia:Tell me I’m going to figure this out.
I type the message, hit send. Last night I texted a stream of exclamation points, and he knows me well enough to know that means good news. That I got what I wanted—the Big Job.
He answered with the thumbs-up emoji, leaving me warm and happy, like celebrating with an old friend and sometimes mentor.
Now, he replies with an unexpected offer:Want help?
The smiley face is so un-assassin-like of him, I snort. And I do want help, I really do. But this is part of the game—making it hard to decipher so if it’s intercepted, no one will know what it’s for, or who, for that matter. If anything, I’d assume some high school kid experimenting with poetry wrote a dark poem and dropped it when they thought they’d shoved it in their pocket.
Nadia:Not yet. Maybe soon. I’ll let you know.
Ian:Of course.
For a second, I consider askingAre you old enough to have a midlife crisis? What will you spend a lot of money on when you turn forty?
Instead, I smile sheepishly at my own thoughts—I can’t ask Ian that—and set the phone down. Ian—whenever he’s forty, we’ve never discussed age—likely won’t have a midlife crisis. Or if he does, he’ll take care of it swiftly and with precision, buying that expensive car or motorcycle, getting it out of his system, then moving on with life. That’s his style. And mine, too, for that matter. It must be an assassin thing.
My gaze shifts over the dashboard. It’s nearly 9:30 a.m. The pharmacist will be out soon, and once she has her coffee, she’ll gosit at a little picnic table with a sun umbrella where she’ll spend all of her fifteen-minute break.
As I wait for Jennifer to go order her eight-ounce cappuccino, I mouth the words of the riddle again.Take a stab.Okay, so they want me to kill him with a knife—no, maybe that shouldn’t be taken literally.
Do it fast.
I glance at the date—it’s May seventh. According to the poem, they want it done on May tenth. So I have until Monday to figure it out.
No, that’s not right. It says on May tenth to take a walk. So I don’t necessarily have to kill him that same day. That’s merely the day I’ll identify my target.Go to where the concrete stops…That could be anywhere. It could be a park on a dirt path, or a lake. Hell, it could be the ocean, on the Gulf Coast. It’s not even slightly helpful.
Another glance at the clinic, but there’s nothing. The reality no one told me about being a professional killer is that a lot of the job involves waiting—for packages with information to arrive, for the day of a kill, for the mark to wander out to buy a fucking coffee…
Twenty minutes later, I catch sight of movement in my periphery. A white jacket, floating in the wind. A woman with a tight bun on top of her head, a sly smile on her lips. My assumption is that she’s successfully made money on killing good people today. My lip curls.
She crosses the lot, orders her drink, leans into the window once again as she waits.
A second later my phone rings. I look down as my husband’s contact photo pops up. He must be in between meetings—he rarely has time to talk on business trips.
“Hi.” I mentally rehearse the plan I have for dealing with his midlife crisis. It might be too soon to suggest a weekend away, a new car—it might be obvious I’m trying to squash this whole baby thing with a spicy distraction.
“Hey.” Brian’s tone is warm, but people talking in the background obscure his voice. I have to listen carefully to make out his words. “Do you have a second to chat?”
