“It wasn’t my fault,” I say matter-of-factly. But it is. I lost control.
I’m in the process of losing that and much more.
“I was told it was particularly bloody and looked nothing like an accident.”
“Whoops.” It’s not that I don’t care—it’s that he’s not telling me anything new, and I have other things to attend to.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Is that what you want me to tell them? You made awhoopsie?”
He’s right, I fucked up. But what’s done is done. I check the time. “I have to go.”
“No, what you have to do is kill this guy. What’s the holdup?”
My other phone vibrates. Brian, texting me back.Early lunch meeting. How’s your morning so far? You slept late!
And then:
Brian:So privileged to spend these past ten years with you.
My heart does something funny and annoying in my chest. God damn it, why did I have to fall in love with him?
“Bye, John.” I hang up on him, grab my keys, my gun, and hurry back to the minivan. For the first time ever, this assassin is trying to keep someone alive.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Brian strolls from his workplaceinto a generic office building parking lot. He sports a white button-up, black slacks, and his neck cranes down as he taps away on his cell phone. He’s noticeablywithoutthe woman from before, but then again, maybe she’s his other wife, awaiting his return in Austin while he’s supposedly on a business triphere.
He works in a concrete-and-glass monstrosity, veryeverything is bigger in Texas, with so many windows, I could probably sharpshoot every single person in the building. But that’s not my job—keeping someoneelsefrom sharpshooting him is—so I rotate between eating the kids’ leftover snacks in the minivan and skulking around outside, pretending to follow the nature path at the property’s edge.
Brian slides into his Beemer and pulls out onto the street. I follow, of course, and at the first stoplight pull out my phone. This part sucks. Questioning my husband’s every move, wondering when another hitter will sweep in. I need a distraction; following Brian isn’t nearly as fun as plotting some mark’s death.
I hate this part of the job, I text Ian.
He must be awake, because he replies:You’ll have to clarify which part.
Nadia:The part where I stand around waiting for something to happen. Or drive in circles, trying to go unnoticed.
Ian:Tell me about it.
I scrunch my nose at the obvious reference to him watching the house until the wee hours of morning.
Nadia:Sorry it took me so long to get back last night.
Then traffic is moving again, and it’s ten minutes of trying to keep an eye on the black BMW while simultaneously keeping one to two car lengths between me and Brian, because god forbid heseesme. He’d want to stop and talk and hug and kiss and be cutesy, which I’m incapable of at the moment.
Brian drives five miles to a strip mall teeming with restaurants. He pulls into the most respectable and least obnoxious one—no cartoon characters or servers wearing bling—and goes inside. The sign declares it a steak house, which should make him happy. I refuse to cook the stuff—data shows it’s a heart attack waiting to happen. I keep watch outside, inspecting each and every customer who walks in. A couple, who dare to wear white shorts. A group of coworkers in khakis. A family.
None of them look like killers.
Which does absolutely nothing to reassure me.
Ian:Just how far did you run?!
I consider lying to him. I go with a limited version of the truth:About six miles.
Ian:And that took you until 4 am?
I recline the seat to wait. At Brian’s office, I made three laps of the property, having found absolutely zero killers besides me, when I caught my rather haphazard appearance in the reflection of glass—and Jesus, was that scary. I need a—an everything. A shower, a blowout, a manicure. A seven-day spa retreat would work too. Preferably one on a beach that includes drinks with umbrellas and zero people trying to off my husband.
