I almost take him into my office, through the hidden doorway to my hidey-hole.
But there’s too much there. Until I know how he’ll react, it’s better I keep certain things to myself. And I’ve decided it’s best I keep the fact that Ian and I are—were—friends under wraps. How can I possibly explain that myfriendkidnapped and nearly killedhim? And that maybe, if Ian knew Brian is FBI, I could almost understand why?
We come to a stop in the kitchen, where I pull down two rocks glasses and reach for a bottle of bourbon we bought on our last trip to the beach, something local and smooth.
On the back patio, I flick on the fairy lights, light a candle, and sit in my normal chair overlooking San Antonio. Brian sits beside me, easing down into the chair carefully. He accepts a glass and, our eyes meeting, we clink.
“To being alive,” he murmurs.
I nod. We sip.
There aren’t many things in the world that inspire fear in me, but now, I’m fairly trembling. When I’ve downed half the glass, I find the words to start. “I’ve hidden who I am from you since the day we met. I never wanted you to know. It was easier, safer—for you, for the girls. Even for me.”
The gravity of his stare is palpable. If I were someone else, I might squirm. But I’m not, so I meet that gaze dead-on.
“But when you were taken, I couldn’t be just your wife, the mother of your children. I couldn’t continue the act. I had to let myself beme—be…” I hesitate. “Her. Or—” With a nod, I acknowledge we are not separate beings. The monster is me, and I am the monster. And today, she came out to play. “I had to do everything in my power to save you.” I take another sip. Debate how much to tell him. But withholding the truth hasn’t helped us. If anything, it almost ended us.
“Someone put a hit on you.”
He doesn’t respond at first. When he does speak, it’s to ask, in a soft, deadly voice, “And how do you know that, Nadia?”
I shrug. “I kill people for a living.”
His eyebrows rise, slowly. He gulps down the rest of his drink.
“I was given a new assignment, a new person to kill. It was supposed to be a Big Job,” I tell him. “And so I followed this person, from the Pearl District to Austin. And when they got out of their fancy town car…it was you.”
When Brian finds his voice, it’s to croak out, “You’re anassassin?”
I nod. “The only events I plan are people’s deaths.”
“You were going to killme?” The shock hasn’t left his voice.
“Well—maybe.” I harrumph. “I mean, I had to make sure you were doing bad things first. I only kill bad people. But it was impossible to figure out. And then—” I cut myself off, because to explain about Ian would be to admit that the man who nearly killed him was my friend. And for some reason, I’m not ready to go there yet. I’m not ready to utterly count Ian out. Maybe he thought he really was helping. It doesn’t excuse the fact that he didn’t listen, didn’t heed my wishes. “But you weren’t.”
“How did you—when did you first—” He’s not caught up on the fact that someone wanted to kill him. It’s the wholemekilling people part he’s struggling to process. His eyes are wide, his hands flexing and curling, like maybe it will help him get a grip on what I’ve just shared.
I pour us both more bourbon. “I was in high school. Piper’s college boyfriend was violent. I was pretty sure he was like me—” I make sure I’ve got his attention, then add, “In layman’s terms, I’m a psychopath. And he was too. Except I’m different.”
“Different how?”
“My gran—” I pause, try to think of how to explain that I’m pretty sure my grandmother, at a minimum, killed my abusive, controlling grandfather. That maybe he wasn’t her first. “She helped me set some rules. I’ve always felt like there was this pressure welling up inside me. Like a pot that will boil over, or a screamthat I can’t hold back anymore. It tells me to do horrible things so I can feel normal, because that side of me grows bigger and bigger, like I’m going to burst. And I realized that killing—it eases that. It lets me feel okay again. Somehow, my gran knew I killed that jerk. He was hurting Piper. He could have killed her. So I killed him first. And it was like for the first time in years, I could breathe.” The words tumble out. It’s more honesty than I’ve even given Ian.
“And then I realized I could make a living doing it.” I meet his eyes. “I only take certain contracts. I only kill bad people. Which is why I waited to kill you. It’s why I followed you. I had to be sure. Because you”—my head tilts, trying to let some of the emotion I feel on the inside come out in a way he can see—“you’re good. And I knew that. And it didn’t feel right that you could do something so bad you deserved to die for it. Someone must have put a hit on you because you’re in the FBI. What exactly do you do for them?”
Brian reaches for the bottle. He pours another finger or two, then stares at the amber liquid. His chest rises and falls in a sigh. “I locate, compile cases against, and bring certain people—” He looks at me. “People likeyou—to justice.”
Chapter Fifty-One
I’m supposed to kill him.
He should arrest me.
The girls will go to Graham’s, maybe my parents’. Or worse, they’ll be yanked into foster care until everything is settled. Eliza would bepissed; Evie would simply cry. My heart squeezes.
I’ll have to let them take me in, or maybe—maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll make a run for it. It’s possible this is what Ian was trying to save me from. In trying to keep myself from losing everything, I’ve made it worse—I’ve given Brian the key to taking everything away.
“You said you only kill bad people,” he says. “You’ve never killed anyone good?”
