Which does not reassure me—in fact, it makes me think, inaddition to shooting guns, Gran has other skills, like breaking through locked doors…somehow.
Penelope looks at my grandmother. “I will personally look into it though. Right now, I’m just doing rounds, making sure everyone has what they need, that they’re comfortable. I’m still getting to know the residents.” Something flickers in her eyes, and my body steels itself. “You know, I was talking to your grandmother yesterday. I asked her what she did for a living.”
I swallow. Is it possible this woman has gotten more information than I have from my grandmother? Should I have plainly askedDid you use to kill people, Gran?and would she have saidObviously, Nadia, what else?
Penelope gives a little laugh. “She got the most mysterious smile on her face and said it was a secret.”
“A secret,” I echo. “Interesting.”
The nurse peers at me. “Do you know what she did for work?”
I shrug. “She was a homemaker.” It’s not a lie. Shewas…I just have to wonder how she stayed busy in her spare time. I wonder if it’s the same wayIstay busy.
Still, I want to know what Gran was thinking.A secret.She’s never said that to me. Never so much as suggested it. Maybe it was a prank, her own way to amuse herself.
Or maybe she was being serious. Maybe what she did way back thenwasa secret.
I just wonder, no,yearnto know if she was like me. Because if my wonderful gran was like me, that means there’s hope. It means I’m redeemable. It means I’m not a monster.
Chapter Twenty-One
I wake to hands wrappedaround my throat.
My lungs won’t inflate.
My chest aches for air.
Someone is strangling the life from me.
I bolt upright, swinging through the darkness at whoever’s snuck into my home, climbed onto my bed, dared try to kill me in my sleep—
But there’s no one.
Only me, alone in our bed. I raise fingertips to my neck; the skin is soft, no bruising, no soreness. And even with it clear that no one isactuallychoking me, it’s still impossible to breathe.
I, Nadia Davis, am panicking. But I don’t panic. Panic attacks are for other people, not people likeme.
I shove the sweaty bedsheets aside, hurry from the room. The fluorescent yellow lighting of the bathroom casts shadows over my face, creates circles beneath my eyes, where usually I look well rested, healthy, the picture of a thirty-five-year-old mother I want people to see. I take a moment to breathe, staring at myself,wonderingWhat the actual fuck?I press fingers to my wrist to take my pulse—a hundred and ten beats per minute.
Fast.
I stalk down to the kitchen and search the cabinet for my favorite coffee. The black bag tumbles from its precarious position on the edge of the shelf, but I catch it before it scatters grounds across the floor and my dog attacks it.
“No caffeine for you,” I mutter to her.
No, that’s whatIneed. I reach for the machine, dump enough coffee in for at least one pot, then stop short, realizing what I’ve done. I normally measure my coffee, careful to get just the right amount. I never rush through these morning rituals because I’m desperate for my morning cup.
In a snap, I realize what’s happening.
But no, that can’t be right—it’s too soon.
“No, no, no, not now.” I yank out my phone from my pajamas pocket and peer at the calendar app like I’m a woman in terror that she’s missed her period. But that’s not it. I scan the numbers, but the dates don’t line up. Don’t make sense. I kill approximately one person a month. I should befine…
“One, two, three—” I count back the days to when I killed the rich guy on his giant San Antonio estate from the safety of the oak tree. It’s been just over a week since that night, since I performed the one action that lets the monster inside me rest, lets me pretend to be a regular person.
And it’s no doubt because my husband isn’t who he says he is. It’sso greatthat the only person I’ve ever fallen in love with has been lying to me this whole time. And bonus, he’s the father of my daughters. Cool. Of all the fucking people to get on my hit list.
This isn’t anxiety—at least not the normal kind, the sort youmight treat with talk therapy or the same stuff I put in my husband’s nightcap to make him sleep. No, it’s the sort that is cured by one thing: killing someone.
