“What?” My voice comes out sharp, fast. I stumble to a stopand look at him, my normal picture of composure shattered. Bear strains at her leash. “They think I can’t do a job because I’m amom? Why?”
“I can’t say. Maybe they thought you wouldn’t want to go out of town and leave your kids at home?” Ian looks right at me, and the full force of his gaze makes me go silent. His jaw is tense, his face hard. He’s angry—forme. “I thought you should know. Should maybe talk to your handler. Because…” A quick shake of his head. “That’s fucked-up.”
I’m still stunned, unable to form words. I get plenty of jobs, easily one a month. IthoughtI was successful. Even last night, I felt good about my work, my own particular set of skills. I can shoot from a significant distance or make a kill look like an accident. I can merely brush by someone in a crowded place, and minutes later, they’ll drop dead. I takepridein my work, because how many people can do what I do? Furthermore, John hasn’t mentioned me being passed over for jobs, my name being crossed off because I’m a woman, a wife, amom.
“Sorry, Nadia, but I gotta go. I’ll stop back in on the way home—maybe we can grab a beer?” Ian extends an arm and, numbly, I step into his embrace. It’s quick, fleeting, his familiar smell enveloping me for half a second before he’s gone.
I’m left standing alone as the sun burns hot above the horizon. It no longer feels like such a beautiful day.
Chapter Four
The driveway shimmers with heatas I arrive home, sweat dripping down my arms and legs. Bear pants happily as she whines and shoves her face into my leg, asking for attention. I stare at my house, trying to turn once again into mom, wife. My blood still runs hot and fast, thinking about what Ian told me. But these two thousand square feet contain everything in the world that matters. The two little girls inside. The collective that is our family. A husband who is kind and patient and knows me as well as I dare let him. I will do whatever I have to in order to maintain this life, to keep them happy and blissfully unaware of who I really am, of the monster that simmers beneath the surface.
Right now, that means I need to chill the fuck out.
“There you are.” Brian pokes his head out the front door. He tries to smile, but it turns into a wince as his hand comes to his temple.
“Late night?” I keep my voice light as I unclip Bear’s leash and she hurries inside for water.
“Mm-hmm. God, I’m too old for this.” He beckons me through the entry, his dark brown eyes catching mine, holding them in amoment of shared intimacy. He adjusts his glasses, and I stop, watch him. Something about the movement is utterly sexy, which I don’t really understand—maybe I’ve always secretly had a thing for Clark Kent?
Brian smirks, like he knows what I’m thinking. “Coffee?”
“Yes. Please.” Coffee helps everything. It’s also our favorite ten minutes to share in the morning before he goes off to his job as a management consultant. When the tradition began, after the first night I spent at his place, it was simply a desperate need for caffeine on my part. Then I realized howhappyit made him to just sit and spend time together. And so, when I realized he’d be perfect for me, I made certain it became one ofour things.
That, according to more than one relationship book, is how you have a successful bond with another person. To my surprise, I’ve found I enjoy it too. A few quiet moments together as Nadia and Brian before chaos descends and we become Mom, Dad, busy parents, and workers trying to make it through the day.
We take our mugs and step out onto the patio where Piper and I shared a drink last night. I lean in, give him a kiss on the cheek, run a hand through his blond hair, careful to not ruin where he’s gelled it neatly to one side. He likes that, and he grins at me. I spend a moment wondering if his career has been affected by getting married, having kids. My dad once told me that hegota job because he had a wife and children—that his boss thought he was more likely to stick around and do a good job because he had a family to support.
Funny how it’s the opposite for me.
“Work go okay last night?” He raises his eyebrows, waits for a response, like it matters to him. Which it does. Brian always remembers to ask me how my day was. Sometimes, I struggle to know what to say:I took the girls to school. I cleaned the house.Itjust seems so ordinary, so boring, a conversation barely worth having. Parts of our life I am happy to take on but are the same, day in and day out, and sometimes unbearably dull. It’s a wonder stay-at-home moms don’t all start killing people simply out of monotony or lack of adult conversation. I have to leave out all the interesting bits likeI got a new gun, and it’s so cool!
I cast a look at him, wishing I could tell him the real stuff.
“It was…” I consider the quiet Texas evening, the glittering lights across the lawn, the utter surprise and terror in my mark’s eyes before I pulled the trigger. “A beautiful night. Couldn’t have gone better.”
“That’s great. I’m proud of you, babe.” Brian sips his coffee, nudges his shoulder against mine. He’s touchy-feely; I am not. But I nudge him back because I know physical affection matters to him. I’m not sure if love languages are real or just another way for someone to make money, but I’ve spent our whole relationship learning to read him, to respond in a normal, loving manner.
I realized as a child that I didn’t fit in, that I didn’t say the right things or feel the right emotions—I knew from the start that with dating, if I wanted a relationship, I’d have to play the part. Be, if not normal, normal-ish. I’ve learned to be careful, calculated.
Luckily, romantic encounters are easy to come by when you’re a twentysomething with reasonably good looks. And if I screwed up—if I failed to say the right thing or respond how a regular person would and creeped out my date—well, that was okay. A failed date was to be expected. You went out with someone new the next Friday night and tried all over again.
By the time I met Brian, I knew what I was doing. Something about him captivated me, kept me interested, even when the predictable bits became, well, predictable.
We met when we both stopped for an accident during one of Texas’s infamous hailstorms. A car in front of me failed to brake fast enough, and it smashed into a semitruck. When the car came to a smoking stop, the horn honking wildly, I was out of my vehicle before I knew what had happened, sprinting to check on the driver.
No, I hadn’t suddenly gained a conscience; psychopaths will take any thrill they can get, even something so plebeian as a wreck. It was a woman, maybe in her thirties, and she was unconscious—not breathing—soon, dead, if I did nothing.
I could save her. Or I could let her die. The decision lay inmyhands, and it took my breath away.
Then Brian appeared, jolting me into action, and we pulled her from the driver’s side. While I called 911, he performed CPR like someone who knew what he was doing. After the ambulance came and went, we were left on the walkway, breathless, adrenaline coursing through our veins. For the first time, Isaveda life.
Brian had turned to me, all floppy blond hair and dark eyes pulsing with excitement. A kindred soul, I’d thought, interested in the thrill of life and death. Perhaps even a fellow psychopath. Anyone else would have been in shock, more concerned about the woman’s welfare than what he said to me next seemed to indicate: “I think I need a drink after that. Wanna come?”
To my surprise, I smiled at him and said yes.
A year later, we were married, and it was good—I was doing what my grandmother had instructed—doing the thing that normal people did. And Ididlike him, quite a lot. It helped that he wasn’t afraid of danger, that he’d run toward the action instead of away from it. He, I had decided, could keep up with me—at least the parts of myself I shared with him.
