He closed the book, thumb marking the page. "Their names?"
I told him.
He repeated them, careful, precise, as if reading off a list.
"Are you not writing it down?" I asked.
"Do you believe it's wise to leave a paper trail, Miss Holt? You're not exactly buying ice cream here."
"Right," I muttered.
"And you're certain?"
"Yes. I'm certain."
He was quiet for a while, watching a pair of ducks play in the water. "What do you want from us?"
I blinked, unsure. "I want them to know what it's like to have their lives ruined too." Voicing it aloud was unexpectedly freeing, even given the strangeness of the situation.
He turned, faced me square on. "You don't want them dead, do you? Because we don't do murder, Miss Holt."
His words hit me hard and I shook my head. "No. Not dead. Just…not happy. Not safe. Not respected."
The man reached into his coat, pulled out a folded in half piece of paper. Slid it across the bench to me. "This is the price," he said. "Up front. Non-refundable."
My fingers trembled as I opened it. The number written inside mademy brain stutter. It was a huge sum of money and it matched the settlement amount I received from the Valmonts three years ago.
I looked up.
The man was waiting. I couldn't see his features but I felt the sense of expectation from him.
"Okay," I breathed out.
"You have forty-eight hours to think this over one last time before we collect the money. We'll contact you for confirmation."
I tried to steady my heartbeat. "How do I know it's real?"
"You don't. Not until it happens. If that's not enough, walk away now."
When I looked up at the sky, it was navy blue, and the air grew colder by the second.
"There are rules," the man said at last. "As I've mentioned earlier, we don't do murder. We don't get minors involved. Are those limitations acceptable?"
"Yes."
The man rose up from the bench, and smoothed his coat.
"What if I change my mind?" I asked.
"You have forty-eight hours to consider. After that, if you pay us, the process begins." Without waiting for my answer, he tipped his hat, turned, and walked away.
I sat on the bench for a long time. The note in my hand was damp, the ink smudged from my sweaty grip. I watched the last light fade from the pond and wondered what kind of person I'd just become.
And then I wondered if I'd always been her.
2 seven
I was at ninety-eight with knuckles grinding into the concrete when the burner went off. My breath—even and measured—stuttered.
