2. Judah
JUDAH
Why does the heroine always have dead parents? I mean, really. Can someone write a leading lady who doesn’t have some tragic backstory?
My parents are happily retired in Scottsdale. The weather is great, they host bingo twice a week and go on nightly walks with the couple next door.
And why do books always open on some third-person narrator with a god complex talking about the weather?
It was a dark and stormy night? Give me a fucking break.
I huffed and closed the book before tucking it back on the shelf. Anyone else would have been concerned about leaving fingerprints after breaking into someone’s apartment, but not me.
Joel Hawthorne knew I was coming. Maybe that’s why he was late. He was avoiding me.
Not that I blamed him. It was going to be a rather unpleasant night.
Lucky for Joel, I already checked his freezer. He had plenty of ice packs and an ungodly amount of frozen vegetables.
I’d even set out the bottle of ibuprofen for him. The type of pain reliever someone kept on hand said a lot about a person. I didn’t trust people who only took acetaminophen. It didn’t do jack shit.
Joel Hawthorne’s apartment was neatly kept and nicely decorated. Potted plants dotted the windowsill. Thick textbooks were lined up on shelves that bracketed a mounted television. Finance magazines and business journals were in a stack on the end table beside the couch.
The candles were a nice touch. The lavender one flickered where I had set it on the coffee table after lighting it. Lavender was calming.
Maybe lavender was Joel’s preference, but I had a hunch it was his sister’s doing. After all, it was her name on the lease. Lucky for me, she wouldn’t be home until after I was long gone. She was seeing a movie by herself tonight.
Good for her. She deserved a night out before I made her life a little more complicated. Lucky for her brother, the movie would end soon enough, and she’d be home to tend to the state I was going to leave him in.
The doorknob turned ninety minutes later than it should have. As annoyed as I was, at least Joel showed up. The door opened as he loosened his tie, just like always.
If people didn’t want to face the consequences of their actions, then they shouldn’t be so damn predictable.
Today, I was the consequence.
“It’s about time,” I said with a huff as I casually glanced at my watch. “You’re usually here by now. Tell me, was it traffic or was peeling yourself away from the table a little harder than usual?”
Joel Hawthorne stood frozen in the doorway.
I picked up a framed photo of him and his sister off the bookshelf and gave it a passing glance. “The resemblance between male and female twins is always interesting. Sometimes they barely look alike. But you and Amelia are carbon copies of each other.”
I smirked as he swallowed. I loved name-dropping. It was a fun way to play the “I know more about you than you know about me” game. But the game was getting old.
I was an early to bed, early to rise kind of guy. That was, if I slept at all. Unfortunately, in my line of work, late nights were the norm. I just wanted to get home.
“Shut the door, Joel,” I said as I set the picture frame back on the bookshelf. “We need to have a quick chat.”
With a trembling hand, he closed the door, quiet as a mouse. At least he had the good sense not to run. That would have just drawn this out.
“Have a seat”—I motioned to the tufted chair across from me—“and I’ll get to the point.”
Joel’s shoulders slumped as he dumped his messenger bag by the door. The laptop inside could be pawned for a few hundred bucks, but it would barely put a dent in what he owed.
“John sent you, didn’t he?” Joel choked out as he sat down in the chair and wrung his hands together.
“That’s Mr. Valentine to you.”
“Right. I—uh—I’m working on getting the money together.”
“Really?” I said, feigning optimism. “Because your bank account says otherwise. It’s overdrafted by thirty dollars and eleven cents.
And that’s a day after your final paycheck was deposited.
That’s why you moved in with sister dearest, isn’t it?
Couldn’t keep up with your rent on your own?
” I hunched forward and clasped my hands together.
“You have one week to clear your debt to Mr. Valentine.”
Joel paled. “One week? A hundred grand in one week? But that’s—that’s—”
“Your problem,” I filled in for him, then shrugged like it was inconsequential to me—because it was. “I’m just the messenger,” I said as I rose to my feet. “And it’s $101,014. I’ll be back in one week to collect. And unlike you, I’m punctual.”
Worry raced across his face, knitting his brows together. “What if I can’t pay up?”
I trailed my hand down a wooden baseball bat that had been signed by Babe Ruth and was displayed with great care next to a slew of Red Sox memorabilia.
“You can take that.” Joel stammered. “Maybe get some cash for it.”
I arched a disgusted eyebrow in his direction. “You want me to take something that belongs to your sister as collateral for your debt?”
Before he could reply, I grabbed the bat and swung, nailing him square in the left kneecap. The hit was accented with the grotesque crack of bone and cartilage.
The scream that left his mouth was inhuman, but I ignored it as I calmly set the bat back in its place of honor. Joel keeled out of the chair and collapsed on the floor, gasping for breath as he sobbed and clutched his knee.
“I’d suggest being on time with your payment,” I warned as I stepped over him and let myself out the door. “And pick up your laundry off the bathroom floor. You’re a grown man. It’s sloppy in your own house and disrespectful when it’s someone else’s.”
I casually strolled down all three flights of stairs. Poor Joel. His old building had an elevator. Amelia’s didn’t. He’d have a time of going down the stairs on his ass for the foreseeable future.
Streetlight beams danced across the windshield as I pulled onto the tree-lined street. The oncoming headlights sliced across my field of vision, but I quickly caught sight of the driver—a pretty blonde with a face far too peaceful for what she was going to find when she got home.
I eased through the darkened streets of Alcott University. The campus was Ivy-adjacent, mimicking the Gothic revival stonework of the other New Haven institutions. Every twenty-something I passed looked like they had a trust fund.
Maybe I’ll retire in Connecticut.
It was a little ridiculous to think about retiring this close to the Valentine’s territory, but I wasn’t a retire-in-Florida type of guy. I liked the cold.
Connecticut had some nice mountains and beach access. And I liked being close to the ocean, which was why places like Montana were out of the question.
By the time I had made the five-hour drive back to the Jersey Shore, I was beat. It should have been four, but one does not simply drive through Connecticut quickly.
Joel needed to pay up fast so I didn’t have to make this drive again. I didn’t actually want to kill the man. But more than that, I really didn’t want to make this abysmal trek multiple times a week.
But I guess that was what addiction and desperation did to a person.
Joel Hawthorne had shown up at the Four Horsemen a month ago to try to win some cash.
He walked out with a loan from John Valentine.
And when that money dried up, he kept coming back.
He probably thought he could dig his way out by playing one more hand, but he was a shit blackjack player.
I had watched him make risky bets and bad decisions.
He was too emotional. Emotions clouded judgment.
The house doesn’t have emotions. That’s why the house always wins.
I pulled into my apartment complex, cut the engine, and sat in silence for exactly twenty seconds before heading to the unit that had been assigned to me. The familiar bite of cigarette smoke met me as I hit the landing.
“You’re home awful late,” Cordelia Devers said as she sat in her open doorway. She took a slow pull from the cigarette between her fingers and blew out a long stream of smoke.
“You staying out of trouble, Delia?” I asked as I fished my keys out of my pocket.
She chuckled. “Never. I just keep tabs on everyone else. You staying out of trouble, Mr. Graham?”
“What fun would that be?” I asked with a grin. “Been a quiet night?”
“Been real quiet,” she said between drags.
The best security system was a nosey neighbor with nothing better to do than sit in her doorway or look out her blinds.
“Thanks for keeping me safe, Delia,” I teased as I pushed the door open with the toe of my boot.
“Not like you need it. You and those muscles,” she bantered back, but it quickly turned into a cough. Those damn cigarettes . . . “But it looks like you’re losing some of your bulk, young man. Don’t go getting soft on me. I like having something pretty to look at.” She winked.
I lingered in the doorway and acted a little bashful as I stroked my hand down the side of my beard. “You think I’m pretty?”
“I mean, not as pretty as I was back in the day.” She gave me a once-over. “But you’ll do.”
I chuckled as I slipped inside. “Night, Delia.”
The apartment was just as I had left it. Spotless and quiet. It was too easy for someone to get away with snooping around if the place was a wreck. Tidiness was safety. Then again, so was Delia the watchdog.
I swept the apartment, making sure no one had snuck by Delia, before going into the bathroom, lifting the mirror off the wall, and unlocking the wall safe.
I grabbed the nondescript laptop out and quickly logged the events of the night. I wrote it clinically—emotion wasn’t part of the job.
Entered Apartment 302 at 1900.
Target entered at 2100.
Communicated the payment deadline, per J.V. instructions.
Physical contact made prior to leaving, per J.V. instructions.
Exited apartment at 2116.
Sister of target arrived on site at 2119.
Arrived at home base at 0157.
Report logged at 0200.
Report copied at 0203.
I turned off the laptop and stowed it back behind the bathroom mirror. Then I rehung the mirror, sprayed it with window cleaner, and wiped my fingerprints away.