Ian presses his lips together and tips his head forward. “He ended up at another college party. Just like you saw. I think he’s recruiting.”
“Recruiting?”
“Do you know how human trafficking works?”
I give a slight nod, replaying what I saw earlier. Girls disappear all the time—and apparently, my husband is one of the reasons why.
“Nadia—”
I spin the shot glass in my hand. He would be paid for each one he coaxed from the crowd and persuaded to follow him to a lonely apartment or into a waiting vehicle. That’s why someone would give him a wad of money. It’s likely why he travels—to San Diego, to Austin. Maybe even why he chose to live in San Antonio. All cities fairly close to the border.
“I can’t quite imagine it,” I say. “MyBrian, trafficking women.”
“It’s more common than you think.” Ian watches two girls who look about fifteen giggling down on the beach. “Take them, for example—out at nearly midnight. Anyone could grab them. And the police would probably call them runaways. At least for a day or two, long enough to make them disappear forever.”
“But Brian…” He’s so good with Eliza and Evie. So kind totheir little friends, so warm and loving to me, to Piper. He treats women like—well, not likeobjects.
“Brian is not even Brian,” Ian reminds me.
He’s right. Brian isnotBrian. I don’t actually know who Brian is.
“There’s more.” Ian sips his whiskey. Pours another shot. Offers me the bottle.
“No, thanks.” I don’t need alcohol to feel numb. I already can barely feel my fingertips, my toes. It’s as though my skin is vibrating, like the second after I fire a shot and for a moment time freezes. Except that’s not what’s happening now—nowI can feel her, my monster, at the periphery, peeking out, like maybe this is her opportunity to come out and play.
And for the first time ever, I’m starting to think she’s not wrong. If I let my inner monster escape, maybe this will all be easier. I’ll certainly feel less.
“He wasn’t just looking for women to traffic,” Ian says. “He was also looking for a woman for tonight. And he found one.” Ian’s eyes bore into me, and his voice is tinged with anger. “He wasn’t alone when he went back to his hotel room.”
I don’t speak for a minute, or maybe two, or hell, ten.
When I do, it’s to say, “Let’s kill him.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
My gun’s holster sits insidemy leggings, the elastic keeping it snug against my skin. A sheathed knife presses along one calf. The part of me that makes me different—able to kill people and feel no remorse—has spread silky smooth through my entire being. I don’t hesitate. Don’t think, don’t feel. I just do, and right now, that means I’m going to kill my husband.
Does that make him an ex-husband? No, it makesmea widow.
A black widow?
I must make a noise—a snort of laughter, maybe—because when I look up, Ian’s gaze is focused on me, filled with concern.
“What?” I snap. “Are you coming? Let’s go. I’ll split the fee with you.”
Ian stands, holds a hand up as if to block me. “You can’t go now. You’re drunk.”
“I had a glass of wine and two sips of a margarita. I’mperfect. And Brian is the walking dead.”
“Nadia.” He steps in front of me.
I lift one eyebrow, daring him to get in my way.
“For one, he’s not alone.” Ian holds up a finger, then raises asecond. “Two, maybe you don’t feel drunk, but wehavebeen drinking. We never drink on the job. You know that.”
“He’s selling people like cattle. He’s cheating on me. And I’m killing him.” I hesitate a second. “Shit. I never asked if he wanted to be buried or cremated.”
Ian frowns at me. “Seriously?”
