Somebody Worth Killing

Chapter One

If it weren’t for the fire ants crawling up my leg, I would be thoroughly enjoying the evening.

It’s another steamy Texas night, the wind scented with oncoming rain, and I’m tucked in the crook of a sprawling oak tree in the backyard of a multimillionaire’s estate.

He doesn’t know it yet, but I’m going to kill him.

A growl comes from my throat as the stream of fire ants climbs my leg and begins to bite.

I lower the rifle long enough to pick them off, one by one—easier said than done, their little hooks dug into my skin—and smash them, feeling no more remorse than I will for the man I’m about to off.

I wipe sweat—and melting makeup—from my brow, fix my ponytail, and adjust my aim one more time.

I knew I should have worn waterproof mascara.

Through the scope, my target sips what looks like bourbon from a highball glass, laughing as he talks on the phone and peers inside his refrigerator.

It irks me to do this from afar, to not get to see the terror and panic in his eyes the moment before his life ends.

It may be justice, but it’s not enough. It never is for people like him.

Still, I catch myself smiling in anticipation, imagining the next several minutes unfolding.

God, I love my job.

My finger plays over the trigger. I inhale, exhale, and—

My ass vibrates.

“Damn it.” I drop my trigger hand, grab at my shuddering phone shoved in the pocket of my workout tights. It’s hardly work attire, but I’ll finish this job and look like one more yoga mom out for a stroll, not the trained killer that I am.

“What?” I snap at my sister, annoyed at the interruption.

I peek through the scope, but my target has wandered off, out of the kitchen.

I swivel the gun, tracking him into his dining room, where he proudly looks out at his lawn, one I’ll bet he’s never lifted a finger to tend.

I try not to fidget with impatience. The last thing I need is to fall out of this damn tree.

“I know you’re working, but listen, Eliza just threw up again.

That’s the third time. I’m worried.” My sister’s voice yanks me from the moment, like I’m surfacing from a fever dream.

Follow-up questions about my daughter’s symptoms come to mind, but I swallow them back. I’m working. I can’t do this right now.

“I’m at a—a wedding rehearsal. With a bridezilla,” I say. My mark steps away from the window, out of view. “Fuck.”

“I thought you were at an actual wedding, and that’s why you couldn’t stay home with your sick kid? Wait, are you allowed to say ‘fuck’ at a wedding?”

I pause, trying to remember what I’d told Piper over the phone as I’d pleaded with her to come watch my daughters. “No, it’s a wedding rehearsal. Who gets married on a Monday night?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never been married. Can you come home, or what?”

“Did you try calling Brian?” I barely keep the frustration out of my voice—my big sister is a lifesaver, but I can’t get a job done without her calling, peppering me with questions.

She doesn’t have kids—never wanted them—and makes for a wonderful aunt.

But she’s also terrified of screwing up.

Little does she know, moms do screw up, constantly, and I’m a prime example of that.

“Um, well, I mean, you’re the mom.”

And he’s the dad!

The tree trunk digs into my scalp as I lean my head against it and squeeze my eyes shut.

“She’s fine,” I say. This is one of those situations when a parent would give the kid a Popsicle and send them to bed, but Piper will worry herself sick, because to her, children are basically foreign beings that are utterly fragile and often disgusting. She’s not wrong about that second part.

“I think she’s dehydrated.” Piper’s voice is high, fast. In the background, my five-year-old’s baby voice—not her normal voice—calls for her mommy.

That would be me; they both always want me.

I just have to wait until they’re older, then Piper will be the fun aunt, the one who lets them try a sip of her wine.

Or, you know, pours them their own glass.

“She’s—” My hand clenches around the rifle stock. Piper is helping me, doing me a favor. I have to be nice; that’s how people treat those who do them favors. “Okay, I’ll run by the store and grab some Pedialyte.” And wine. “I’ll be there soon, okay?” We disconnect.

Back to Mr. Rich Guy.

My phone tucked in my pocket, I look through the scope again, but he’s gone. An empty stainless steel kitchen. A dining room table that could seat sixteen. A bedroom with a perfectly tucked quilt. And no mark.

I take a breath, tell myself to relax. He has to still be there. If my sister calling for the umpteenth time is the thing that makes me fail this job, I swear to god, I’ll—

The groan of an automatic door snatches my attention.

Swiveling my viewfinder lower, to the driveway that snakes around the home, I focus on the garage hidden in the back.

He’s there, in his khaki pants and fancy shoes, a diamond-encrusted watch that reflects the light just so.

I grin, flushed with relief and anxious to continue.

Perhaps I make a noise. Or maybe he senses my presence—death lurking at the edge of his ten-million-dollar property, waiting for him.

He looks up, squints against the outdoor lights, right into the tree where I’ve made myself at home.

His eyes widen as he catches sight of me, my rifle.

I smile, give him a little wave, then return my hand to the gun and pull the trigger.