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My chest gives an uncomfortable little squeeze.

I don’t like it.

I take a long drink of my coffee, then set the mug on the nightstand.

Okay. I can deal.

I look down at my naked body. I probably should’ve put clothes on first, but I had more important things to deal with.

Paula Martin may have gotten a show if she’s lurking by the fence again.

I should dance naked in front of my window tonight. Give her limp-dick husband a show, too. Bet Paula would quit nosing so much.

I force my eyes off the bed, head into the bathroom, and turn on the shower until the water is set to hellfire temperature.

I scrub my hair furiously, still thinking about the disappearing hitman.

Fine.

He left.

Doesn’t mean he’s gone.

This is fixable.

I’m nothing if not resourceful.

By the time I’m dressed in leggings and a sweatshirt, using the diffuser to dry my curls, I’ve already made a plan.

Once I’m finished, I grab my laptop and sit in my oversized reading chair.

I start with the obvious and get on social media.

I type Roman Hollow Creek into the search bar.

Nothing.

I widen the search. Roman Vermont.

Thousands of results.

Too broad.

I try again. Roman hitman Vermont.

Then I freeze.

Okay. Maybe Googling “hitman Vermont” from my home Wi-Fi isn’t the best idea.

I close the browser.

Then I reopen it and choose New Incognito Window.

Much better.

I continue searching variations of Roman, Vermont, hitman, and Hollow Creek.

All to wind up with a big, fat zero for the number of hits that match him.