I glance over my shoulder, watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest for a moment before slipping from thebed. The tiles are cold beneath my feet as I tiptoe across them. The cell feels warm in my hand as I cover the screen before unplugging it from its charger.
Continuing my journey to the bathroom, I close the door silently behind me. Wince as I press the button to lock it and it engages with a click. I freeze, listening for any sign that I’ve woken Jake. When there’s none, I feel around in the pitch-black until I find my damp towel from earlier.
Rolling it into a cylinder, I tuck it into the crack beneath the door, then turn the device on, using the light to locate my filthy pants, still on the floor in the corner. Checking the pocket, I find the SIM card I’d placed there earlier. Then, sitting to relieve myself, I begin my search.
It’s an odd experience, learning about the person who’s tried to kill you. I’ve done it before, but this time feels different. Because the deeper I dig, the more my assailant seems less like a monster and more… human.
Despite being a contract killer, he had a wife. Children. A dog. And based on the photos on his spouse’s Facebook page, a large extended family and a lot of friends. I study their faces in the glow from the screen, wondering who it is—which one of these connections of his might die at my hands?
Is it the man with the receding hairline? The woman with the tiny gap between her front teeth? Or maybe I’m wrong and the person I’m looking for isn’t in any of these pictures. The only thing I know for sure is that they exist.
Because the information Jake’s private investigator gathered on him, the dossier I found in the glove box of the white sedan, contains a vital piece of information and that’s how Don Farris found the jobs he took.
I scroll through his wife’s feed, ignoring everythingelse. The cold that starts to take me in its grasp. My fatigue and the overwhelming urge to return to bed. Even my guilt at keeping what I’ve discovered from Jake.
He’s been so hopeful that his plan will work, that we can take away his mother’s means to hire another hitman and end this once and for all. And I’d love for that to be true. But there’s one thing that makes me fear that it won’t be that simple.
According to the intel in the file, the sniper refused to communicate any way other than in person. No paper trail, no risk of a phone conversation being recorded, no electronic footprints that could lead back to him.
Though I wouldn’t put it past Janine Walker to have the gall to invite an assassin to visit her in prison to discuss murder for hire, she couldn’t have. She’s still under the restrictions of a new inmate, limited to visits only from immediate family and legal counsel.
Which means that Janine Walker didn’t hire him. Someone else did it for her. And until I figure out who that person is, this won’t truly be over.
Goosebumps rise to the surface of my skin, spreading across my flesh as I shiver. It has nothing to do with being chilled. At least, not in the temperature sense.
As a family man, it makes sense that Don Farris was cautious, but as careful as he was, it turns out that he wasn’t careful enough.
My heart pounds against the walls of my chest in outrage. It sounds like a drum, filling my ears with an almost deafening echo. Looking at the bathroom door, I half expect to see Jake standing there.
It’s still closed. Still locked. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to do this quickly.
Clicking on a photo of Don Farris, a candid shot thathe doesn’t seem aware was being taken, I spread my fingers across the screen to enlarge the man beside him. Stopping before the picture gets too grainy, I capture a screenshot. Close out Facebook and run an image search using Google Lens.
Within minutes, I’ve navigated to the Monroe County Tax Collector’s website. Searched variations of Janine’s name, including the alias we know she uses. Then I enter the identity of the man from the Facebook photo. A list populates with three different properties in the county owned in his name.
I read the addresses over and over, committing them to memory until when I close my eyes, I can still see them. And the man’s face.
There’s a hollow ache inside me as I break off a tooth from the comb Jake bought me, using it to remove the SIM card from the phone. I insert the replacement, then use the lid from the toilet tank to crush the used one before dropping the pieces down the sink drain.
Clearing the search history on the phone, I power it off. Once my eyes have adjusted to the dark, I remove the towel from beneath the door, disengage the lock, and open it. Put the cell back on the charger. Then I creep across the room.
As I climb back into bed, scooting across the mattress closer to Jake in hopes of absorbing some of his warmth, I take solace in the fact that he’ll never suspect a thing. He trusts me—the same way that I should trust him.
CHAPTER 32
The sun beats down from above. The heat is stifling, sweat prickling along my spine and beading along my hairline. My palm, cupped against Jake’s, is damp.
Despite that, I feel chilled as we trek the half mile from where we decided to park to the bank. And though we talked our game plan over for hours this morning, the band tightening around my chest with each step gives me the sense of being unprepared.
As we step inside, it only gets worse. I shiver against the frigid air conditioning, goosebumps racing across my body. The bare skin of my shoulders, revealed by the sundress Jake bought for me, feels like it’s shrinking against my bones.
I want to turn around and retreat. Instead, I fix a smile on my face and remind myself to keep my head held high as we get in line.
Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, threatening to trigger a headache. My left eye twitches, reminding me to pull my hair forward, over my bruised temple. Evenwith the wound covered, I still look rough. Though the concealer Jake bought helped, it was unable to perform the miracle of making me look like a human in full health.
Maybe that’s why I can’t help feeling like this is a long shot. That there’s no way, despite the perfect replica of a Florida state driver’s license with my picture next to the name of the account holder, that this is going to work.
Yet as we step up to the counter and a young woman in her twenties with spiky hair asks how she can help us, my voice is clear and confident, as I reply, “Yes, I’d like to close out my account please.”
