“Oh, um. You know how I thought Brian was cheating on me?”
She frowned. “Did you kill him already? I wanted to help.”
I wasn’t sure if she was joking. “No, I was wrong. So we…patched things up. Sorry for the noise. Things got rough. In…a good way.”
She eyed me suspiciously.
“We were making up for lost time,” I added. “Hereallymissed me.”
I’m still not entirely sure she bought my story, but exhaustion won over and she muttered, “You’re like teenagers. The girls are more considerate than the two of you. Get a room.” She paused, seemingly remembering we were in our own house, and added, “Get ahotelroom.” Then she’d gone back to bed. A babysitter in place, we got out of the house as fast as we could, just like we’ll return as soon as possible. When we get home, we’ll put on a pot of coffee and pretend everything is normal.
In reality, nothing is.
“I can’t believe we’re going to do this.” Brian’s fingers drum the armrest.
“We have to.”
He works his jaw. “Couldn’t we just tell them…that someone attacked us?”
“Too many questions. Plus, you’ve obviously been shot.”
He exhales. “I’m just now realizing what this really will mean for my job.”
I put the van in park, give our passenger—the one in the body bag—a backward glance and frown. “What are you saying?”
“We might not be keeping secrets from each other anymore. But that won’t mean we’re not keeping secrets.”
He’s right. I haven’t spoken to John yet—he won’t answer hisphone. Probably, he’s giving me the silent treatment, letting me know we’re done for good. But somehow, I have to get in touch with my agency. See if they’ve fired me, if I’ll have to find someone new to work with or freelance or—I don’t even know what. But that’s a concern for later. Either way, I’ll have an FBI husband, and they can’t know that. Just like Brian can’t tell anyone his wife is a killer for hire.
We sit in the car a moment longer as a deer and her baby—a tiny newborn with white spots—emerge from the line of trees. We have to carry the body into the forest and leave no obvious trail. My preferred method is digging a hole. Dropping the whole body bag in, but only after adding chemicals that will dissolve the skin, the muscles, the bones. And in doing so, most if not all of the DNA. It’s a rare thing I have to do—usually, the agency tells me to leave the body where it is—but I’ve buried a body often enough to know the steps, to know how to not fuck it up or leave evidence behind. I always assume that someday someone will find it.
“How many times have you done this?” Brian asks.
“I’m not sure.” Ten times? Twenty?
“Where did youlearnto do this?”
“YouTube.” And Ian, but I don’t say that. He’s where I got the idea to add the chemicals to dissolve the body, anyway.
Brian swears, but I’ve already moved on. Thinking of a dead body reminds me of something else.
“We still have a problem,” I tell Brian.
“Oh god, what now?” He glances sideways at me, and he’s being sarcastic, but not by much.
I open the door, step into the stifling morning air. We stopped for coffees along the way, and I finish a long pull of my triple Americano. Brian meets me at the back of the van, where I pop the cargo door.
“This guy might have been the gunman, but someone hired him. Which means someone still wants you dead.”
Brian presses his hands to the back of the van. “That is a problem.”
“Yeah.”
“They won’t call off the hit? Since he failed?”
“No.”
“Well, what do we do?” He looks at me.
