It’s a horrible thought, and I’m instantly ashamed. Knowing Elizanow, I could never make another choice. She and Evie are my world. My emotions may be blunted and I may not feel love often or easily, but despite the common belief that those on the spectrum between sociopathy and psychopathy feelnothing, I do feel things. Sometimes. For some people.
“But you never get a day off. Like, ever.”
“It’s different when it’s your own kids. They feel like…” I think for a second. “An extension of yourself. Does that make sense?”
She scrunches her nose. “Not really. They’re still other people, ones that need you for, like, everything.” She glances sideways at me. “I mean, I love my nieces. We had fun until Eliza threw up. I just can’t quite wrap my head around doing it every day.”
“Well, you’re a wonderful aunt. You don’t have to be a mom.”
“Yeah, I know.” She pushes to her feet, swallows down the last drops of rosé. “Anyway, I’m meeting a friend.”
“Someone I know?”
“Probably not.” She leans in, gives me a hug, and she’s off. Disappearing into the world of singledom. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous.
I let myself imagine being able to do a job, then linger, enjoy it. Though maybe it’s better I can’t do that—the killers who do are the ones who don’t last long. Who slip. Who let their monster out a little too much, a little too often, and get caught. But still, it sounds nice to have an evening where I don’t have to worry about anyonebut myself. At least until I climb the stairs and see the door to my girls’ room cracked open. The rise and fall of their little chests makes my heart swell. They rest snug beneath their matching blue comforters—blue, Eliza insisted, mostly because she knew people expected her to prefer pink. I go to her bed first, press gentle fingers to her forehead—no fever. Then I go to Evie, still in her smaller toddler bed. She sleeps with her lips pursed, perpetually annoyed about something. It makes me smile.
When I drift downstairs, it’s not to finish my wine.
In the safety of darkness, I retrieve the gun case from beneath the floor mats of my Honda minivan. Back in the house, I go from window to window, securing them. I double-check that all three doors are locked and dead bolted. The security alarm is armed. Brian will be home at some point, but who knows when; it’s his monthly poker tournament with a group of guys he works with, and it’s not uncommon for him to stroll in when I’m up making the morning coffee. I’d be annoyed, but the reality is that he rarely misses family time when he’s in town.
I slip into the bedroom-turned-office I insisted I need for work, mommy mode pushed to the back burner and Nadia, assassin, at the ready. My office is purposefully hyperfeminine, with faux-flower arrangements in clear vases, bridal magazines stacked generously on every horizontal surface, and not one, butthreewedding-themed vision boards tacked to the walls. In other words, it’s enough to make my husband instantly recoil and back out of the room before he’d ever consider exploring it.
Which is my exact intention—if he doesn’t want to come in the room, he sure as hell won’t go near the walk-in closet.
Speaking of, I open the door and step inside. Behind a bunch of wedding crap—whatever was on sale one weekend, tulle and ribbon and plastic champagne glasses—sits a shelf filled withbooks on planning the perfect wedding. When we bought the house, Brian had to leave town for two weeks to travel overseas for work. It was terrible timing in terms of moving our belongings—but it was perfect for the changes I needed a specialty company to come in and make.
He never noticed that this closet became smaller—why would he, with all the pink ruffles and lacy white chair coverings spilling out of it?
I press a slim card against the side of the bookshelf, deactivating the magnetic lock. Aclick, and the shelf swings outward, toward me; it’s actually a door.
Yes, I have a secret room.
It’s the size of a large bathroom, a blend of closet and previously unutilized attic space to give me room to store certain items that, let’s just say, shouldn’t be left lying around, especially with small kids in the house. It’s also soundproofed and where I make most of my calls. No one can overhear, not even a certain five-year-old who loves to sneak out of bed. A private, encrypted wi-fi network ensures I can reach outside of our home.
Guns hang on a rack affixed to the wall, and I return the rifle to its spot. Knives rest beneath them, a fancy spy radio sits to one side, and lastly, a baby monitor is positioned on my small worktable so I can make sure the girls are where they’re supposed to be. I reach for my work phone. It’s theoretically untraceable, thanks to cryptocurrency, an anonymous SIM card, and a special communication app. Multiple layers of security, always. I dial a number from memory.
“You’ve reached John’s Adult Toys, how can I help you?”
“It’s me.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m not sure—”
“Come on, John, it’s late.” In the background, theatrical music plays, thepew-pew-pewof a video game gun. “Super Nintendo?”
“Sega,” he says. “I’m almost done, hold on.”
John is my handler, the person who gives me hits and communicates with the agency that assigns them. He acts about nineteen, and his cover is managing a pizza shop. His spare time involves playing retro gaming systems. Secretly, I suspect he lives in his mother’s basement, but I’d never cross a line and ask. Instead, I picture him there when he pisses me off. I find it soothing.
“Okay, what’ve you got for me?” His tone changes as he settles into his business voice. He, too, has two modes.
“The job is done.”
“Any issues?”
I think of the fire ants, the pustules that will surely form on my leg. “Nope.”
“You’re killing it, Nadia.”
