I imagine the worst possible ending to this assignment, the job I wanted so badly.
Not a second later, the door to the building clangs open, an older man stepping out with a lit cigarette. He sees me, holds the door open, gestures, obviously meaningYou going in?
I smile my thanks and accept his kind offer.
Or rather,shedoes.
—
A long, darkhallway greets me. To one side, a staircase and an elevator. I take the stairs, climbing to the third floor. The top step gives way to a landing, eight doors leading to apartments. But hers is the corner one facing the street.
Seconds later, I stand in front of it.
I could knock. Could get her to let me into her apartment by her own volition.
But the monster likes the element of surprise. So I don’t knock. I press a gloved hand to the doorknob, and it turns easily beneath my grip. A sneer works its way to my mouth—such arrogance, the way some people now believe they are inherently safe. The dark hall melts away as a bright, well-designed interior greets me. A living room with brown leather couches, thick rugs, a fireplace. Hardwood creaks softly beneath my feet as I shut the front door. Lock it. Listen for Jennifer Patrick.
The only sound that reaches my ears is the shower.
This is what I should do:
I shouldleave. I should go home and prepare for this kill in an entirely different way. It’s supposed to look like an accident, after all. That’s what careful, methodical assassin Nadia would do.
But as I reach the threshold of the kitchen and spy a fancy set of Wüsthof knives on a magnetic knife rack, I realize it’s too late. That the monster inside me has wound herself tightly around my muscles and tendons, that it is she who entered this building and she who has control right now. The play of light over the blades makes her smile. Makes her stroll over to them and select the carving knife.
Then she goes to the hallway.
To the bedroom. While I maintain enough control to go past the bed and close the curtains to keep from giving the street below a full-on show, she won’t let me just leave the apartment. Sheneedsthis too much, wants it so badly it’s practically sweet and melting on her tongue.
The bathroom door is open a mere crack. Steamy air puffs out into the bedroom, a tantalizing tease of what’s inside. Together, we edge the bathroom door open another inch. Naked flesh through the glass shower door never looked so ready to bleed.
In the back of my mind, I think,She deserves to die.
But the monster doesn’t give a shit. The monster just wants blood.
We should be careful, don’t leave prints, don’t make a mess—
The monster rolls her eyes, yanks the shower door open, smiles as Jennifer’s eyes go wide. The pharmacist shrieks, her shrill cries echoing in the small space, and tries futilely to cover her body with her hands, as though modesty is what’s at stake here and not her life.
“I heard you were a bad girl.”
Who said that? Me? I said that.
My heart races with anticipation, and in that moment, the monster and I are inseparable—I can’t tell where she begins and I end because, really, we’ve been the same person all this time. It’s just that I’ve had control, and now I don’t. Nowshedoes.
Jennifer huddles in the corner of the shower. The monster takes us under the hot water, not giving a damn that we’re leaving behind evidence, that we’re soaking wet. She laughs out loud in glee as the tip of the blade slides under Jennifer’s ribs, blood spraying over the shower walls and dripping down as though it were raining red from the sky.
Chapter Thirty-Three
I wake up serene. Myheart rate a slow thump-thump-thump, my limbs heavy with relaxed slumber. I stretch, yawn, feel my smile curling at my lips. I haven’t been so relaxed since Brian and I—
Oh, shit.
I sit up, eyes wide, taking in the room, the open window, the fact that Brian is gone and it’s 7:47 a.m., ten minutes before I need to leave to get the girls to school.
A montage of moments from what I did last night—the blood, the shrieks, the silence…oh, the sweet, satisfying silence. The reason I feel almostnormal, that pressure gone. And one less killer on the streets.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I roll from beneath the sheets, yank on joggers and a tank.
