“I have a new dad joke. Want to hear it?” Brian’s voice yanks me back into the moment, and a smile curves at my mouth.
“Of course.” Since we had the girls—his whole world—he’s made it his job to tell dad jokes at every opportunity. Before I met him, I didn’t laugh often. But with him, I laugh almost every day.
“I learned this one in honor of you.”
I raise a brow. “Me?”
He clears his throat. Adjusts how his glasses sit on his nose, and peers at me through them as though this is no laughing matter. My heart clenches a little. “Why do melons have weddings?”
“Um…”
“Because they…cantaloupe.”
I groan and drop my face into my hands. When I look up, he’s grinning, delighted with himself—and with my reaction. A flicker of guilt winds through me—he learned this joke because he thinks I plan weddings. But the joke was sweet (and awful), and I lean in to give him another kiss.
We chat for a few minutes—about all the normal topics: the girls, his night out, if we should plan a summer vacation.
“Date night tomorrow. I’m thinking downtown?” He gives my free hand a squeeze. “Do we have a babysitter yet?”
“I’ll talk to Piper today.”
“Great.” Brian presses a kiss to my temple. “Love you.”
We gather our mugs and step inside, where he’ll grab his laptop case and exit out the garage. He has the fun car—a BMW X5, the sort of car he dreamed of as a kid.
I think I’ll have a moment alone—maybe long enough to shower and dress—but Eliza appears a second later, and thoughts of everything else flee. She wanders down the stairs, all tangled dark hair and bright blue eyes, the mirror image of me. Her thumb issecure in her mouth. She hugs a stuffed dog tight in the other hand and stares at me. I stare back, glad I met her dad. Glad I kept the pregnancy. Glad, more than anything, that she showed me that something about me is normal: I love her unconditionally.
“Hi, baby. How are you feeling?” I open my arms to give her a big hug. She doesn’t answer, just shrugs, accepts my embrace, then heads for the kitchen, boosting herself onto the stool where she usually eats in the mornings.
She looks well enough today and immediately says, “Breakfast, Mama?”
I slice apples and put half of them on a plate for her to share with Evie. The other half go in identical lunch boxes. I buzz around the kitchen, making breakfast, lunches: fruit, veggie, protein, complex carb, small dark chocolate dessert. If anyone at school casts a wandering eye at my girls’ food, they’ll know their mother can pack a healthy, balanced meal.
When Evie cries out, I run upstairs, bring her down to join her sister. Meanwhile, I remember there are wet clothes in the washer and hurry to the laundry room before I forget to move them over—again. Then back upstairs we go, dressing the girls, brushing tangles out of their hair, giving them neat, exact braids. It’s nearly time to leave for school when I remember I’ve yet to shower and haven’t had any breakfast myself.
Both will have to wait.
I load the girls in the minivan I traded my little sports car for when I was pregnant with Eliza. I could complain about not getting the Beemer, but the vehicle is surprisingly convenient. I can fit a whole body in the back.
I kiss them goodbye and send Eliza off to kindergarten, fingers crossed her breakfast stays down. Evie goes to her “threes” preschool at the same private academy. I practically had to offsomeone to get Eliza in. It’s a relief that Evie, in the preschool, is now assured a spot as she gets older.
I go to the nearest coffee shop drive-through and get a tall Americano and a scone. While I’m eating in the parking lot, I get back to work.
We need to talk, I text John on my work phone.
I want to type out more—want to pound the screen of my iPhone and ask him a billion questions. I want to know what jobs I’ve been passed over for, which high-profile gigs no one even considered my name for. It’s wild to think anyone would care that I’m a mom, that I have children at home. And yet, I’ve read about it happening. It’s one of the reasons Piper left her corporate job and opened her own line of fitness and spa centers—she said she’d never make CEO as a woman.
I glare at my phone, sip my coffee, but John doesn’t reply.
For now, I have to get busy planning the next hit. It won’t happen for a couple weeks; it needs to look like an accident, which requires research. And the right preparation will mean I’m ready for all contingencies. That I’m less likely to be caught. And that no one can say,Oh, it failed because you hired a woman, a wife, a mom.
God forbid they call me what I am, what they’d call a man—an assassin.
I drive across town, peering at the instructions I scribbled on a shred of paper I’ll burn tonight once I know where I’m going, who I’m looking for. I find the clinic easily enough. It’s an outpatient infusion site. I park off to one side and sip my Americano, scrolling through my phone to distract myself as I wait impatiently for my next mark to show her face. My own post-run stench hits me when I raise the scone to take a bite, and I scrunch my nose, nearly missing the woman who bursts from a side door. Crumbs scatter over my lap as I drop the pastry, lean in, peer at her, myheart accelerating in my chest. She sports a white medical jacket, a blond ponytail, and she hurries to the freestanding coffee shop across the lot.
Behind my dark sunglasses, I size her up to see how much of a challenge she might provide—she’s maybe five foot six? And she moves smoothly, like she’s had training as a dancer or a gymnast. So she knows how to use her body. The woman leans into the pickup window of the coffee shop, purse hanging open behind her, blissfully unaware of her surroundings—and of me watching from the van. It’s almost disappointing; not much of a survival instinct. This isn’t the best part of town.
Then I see what’s in her hand—an eight-ounce cup,d cap Hazscribbled on the side in bold Sharpie, which must stand for a dry cappuccino with a shot of hazelnut. It’s an uncommon order. How many blond pharmacists who work in the exact same building would get this order at 9:30 a.m., during her usual break time?
