We move out back, where a cool breeze signals that rain is on its way. A gin and tonic later, Ian has shared the bare minimum details of the hit in Mexico—the one he thinks should have been mine—and that he’s waiting on a package for another nearby job.
“So I thought I’d swing by. I’m camped out at the Marriott. Figured you wouldn’t mind some company.”
“How’d you know Brian wouldn’t be here?”
“I didn’t.” Ian settles a little deeper into his cushioned chair, takes a sip of gin. “But I watched. Figured he was working late when he wasn’t home in time for dinner.”
“He’s out of town. Business trip.”
“Ah,” he says. “So what did you want to talk about?”
I go to take a drink, realize I’ve already drained it. I don’t feel nervous very often—but needing to kill Brian has me acting like someone else, a person who feels like a stranger. I’m never apprehensive, never slip up. It’s like the stable rock that serves as my life’s foundation has shifted, and with it, everything else.
“I’m supposed to kill…a friend.”
“A friend?” He laughs. “People like us don’t have friends.”
“Well…I kind of do.” I frown. “It’s someone I rely upon. Someone I care about. And while I have found signs that theyarebad—that they do maybe deserve to die…” I pause, picturing Brian dead. Which means I imagine him in a casket. And in this daydream—no,nightmare—Eliza and Evie stand in black dresses weeping over the loss of their father. Their pain cuts through me like a freshly honed blade, hot and metallic.
I inhale sharply and look up. Ian’s staring at me like something is amiss. I mentally scramble to recall what I was saying. “I’m, um—I’m not sure if I’m right. It’s making it so hard to decide what to do. I’m havingfeelingsabout it. And usually…”
“Usually, you don’t.”
He can finish my sentence because he is like me. If we were ever evaluated by a psychiatrist, we would likely be diagnosed with ASPD, or antisocial personality disorder. Personally, I don’t mind being called a psychopath, the old-school term for what I am. We aren’t sensitive about the words used to describe us. Though don’t call me a sociopath—those are the ones who don’t think. Who don’t plan. Who end up in prison.
I chew my lip, suddenly utterly aware that earlier today I nearly slipped from one category to the other—impulsivityis a characteristic of a sociopath.
“I almost did something really dumb this morning. I was out running and started following this guy, and within seconds, I knew I was going to kill him. And then—” I recount how I heard the voices mere moments before I grabbed him. How I turned tail and ran back to my van as fast as I could. “That’s not like me. I don’t do things like that. I have too much to lose.”
Ian shrugs. “Answer seems simple enough.”
I turn toward him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean kill them. You can get a new friend. Beyond the fact that just doing it would help you gain back control—take away all the questions and doubts—you know the rules of the game as well as I do. You can’t just decide to not kill someone. It’ll end your career. You’ll never work as an assassin for the agency again. Or worse, they’ll send someone to endyou.” He takes a quick look around. “Probably your family too.”
My muscles tense, dread filling my body at his words. I want to argue, or to say that I would keep them safe. But he’s right. I can’t just not finish the job.
But he is wrong about one thing. Killing Brian wouldn’t help me gain back control. It would make melosecontrol. The monster would emerge and take over without Brian in my life to keep me grounded, to keep me as sane as any psychopath can be.
Either way, I am royally fucked.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It’s WEDNESDAY, two days afterI discovered who Brian isnot, and I’m no closer to knowing who he actuallyis. But that doesn’t stop the world from turning, and I’m up early to sprint on my treadmill for half an hour before hurrying to find time to bathe with a shower coffee.
It’s a thing, really.
By the time the girls are up, I’m dressed, caffeinated, and ready for another day as a Perfect Mother as I split my time between stalking the pharmacist and searching for anything and everything on Brian. I have no specific deadline, but John has made it clear—kill him, already. But I’m not satisfied he’s bad enough to kill yet. In fact, I have an old yearbook pulled up on an ancestry site—from the high school he supposedly attended—when the garage door grumbles to life.
“Daddy?” Eliza pops her head up from her bowl of oatmeal, hope widening her eyes.
“Honey, Daddy’s in Washington, DC—” I say the words in my calm voice, but I’m barreling through the kitchen door to the garage, becausesomeonehas found a way to open it.
I never leave a garage door opener in my car—it’s simply a bad idea. Break a car window, hit a button, and poof, you have access to an entire home. Worse, everyone I know—including Graham, who won’t listen to reason—leaves it in plain sight on the sun visor. Practically an invitation to walk right into his house. I may or may not know from experience.
But garage doors are not infallible. For a long time, only a certain number of electronic codes were made. Criminals could literally drive in circles through neighborhoods, hitting an opener until a garage popped open. Now things are a bit more sophisticated, but that doesn’t make them foolproof. People linking all their locks to home apps with a single password has only made things worse. Or, when I need to kill someone, easier.
I’m about to reach for the gun in the biometric safe behind the rack of shelves that holds our camping equipment—but I recognize the sleek, black BMW pulling in. My stomach does something funny, and for a moment, I think I might puke up my espresso. At least it would blend in with the paint job.
