8. Rian
RIAN
The house feels too clean. Too intentional. But that’s the point.
I’ve vacuumed twice. Wiped down every countertop. Hidden the weapons that usually live under the couch cushions or in the kitchen drawer. I even bought candles. Lavender and sandalwood. Something warm. Something fake.
The whiskey cabinet’s been dusted. The sheets on the bed are new. No stains, no wrinkles. No signs of violence or who I really am.
It smells like bleach and desperation.
I open the fridge to double-check the beer, even though I already checked it twice. Then I adjust the throw pillows again. Maybe she won’t notice the security cameras tucked discreetly into the corners. Maybe she’ll be too distracted by the wine I’ve chilled to ask the wrong questions.
I rehearse what I’ll say. “Do you want to get out of here?” “How about a nightcap?” “What’s one more drink?” “You look tense.” And when she comes back with me, I’ll let her get comfortable. Let her take her shoes off. Let her feel like this is something real. Let her trust me.
Because that’s what it takes. She has to trust me if she’s going to die.
But the funny thing is, even as I polish the glassware and fold the blanket just so over the edge of the couch, I feel it.
The hesitation. The doubt. I don’t want to want her.
I want to complete the task. Clean. Efficient.
But I keep seeing her face. That little button nose, the freckles across it, her hazel eyes and the light in them when I tease her.
Her curves, hiding beneath the stained sweatshirts. Her stubborn jaw.
This would be easier if she weren’t so goddamn human, if I hadn’t already seen her naked once before, if I didn’t already know what she felt like underneath me. If she weren’t possibly the mother of my children.
I pace the length of the living room again. The lights are dimmed. The stereo is ready to cue some playlist that says charming but low effort . Something she can laugh at and nudge me, tell me, “Wow, you really tried.”
I try to picture it. Her standing here. Her jacket falling off her shoulders. Her hand on my chest. And I try to follow it with the image of blood, but it just doesn’t come.
Instead, what comes is the sound of her laugh. That raspy giggle that slipped out when she didn’t mean for it to. And that night, when I made her orgasm around my fingers until she squirted for the first time.
I clench my fists. Focus, Rian. Tonight, you need to be Paul. A simple man from Washington, not someone who knows what her thighs look like quivering and covered in cum .
This is a mission. Nothing more. Still, I go into the bedroom one more time and replace the gun under the mattress with a smaller blade.
Just in case I hesitate. Just in case she makes me pause again.
Because if I’m going to do it, I’ll need to watch her die, to feel her heart still under my hand.
I need to honor her death by being a witness.
I check my watch. The bar is waiting, and so is she. I arrive before her, a good amount of time before her. I order a drink to sip on, and I watch the door.
And then, she enters. And my mind finally shuts up. She’s angelic but trying to be sexy in a tight black shirt and jeans that show off her curves. Half of her blonde hair cascades around her shoulders and half is pinned up with little glittery pins.
From my spot at the bar, I can see the anxiety all over her.
She holds a small black velvet purse in front of her like a shield as her wide hazel eyes scan the bar for me.
I almost wave, but I enjoy the moment instead, watching her look for me.
The unknown in someone else’s face. The way she chews her nails, still standing by the bouncer, so unsure of herself and of this.
For good reason. Half of me likes it because it’s flattering, and half of me likes it because she’s right.
She should be nervous. If only she knew.
And then I watch her turn around and leave.
For a second, I sit there blinking. Did she really just leave?
I wait a second, but yes, she’s gone. I hop off my stool, leaving my drink momentarily, and jog out of the bar after her.
She’s only a little bit down the sidewalk, her back to me.
The gentle slope of her ass to me, jiggling as she picks up speed, more sure of her choice.
I stretch out and grab her wrist, whirling her around to face me.
And what a perfect face it is. She’s made herself up for me, and all I can think is what a shame it will be to throw that face in a river later.
Her lashes are dark and long and curled around eyes that widen, and her open lips are lined and filled with a peachy pink that tells me she thought about red and decided it wasn’t her.
“What are you doing?” I ask her, and she immediately dissolves into laughter, doubling over and resting her forehead on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she says, laughing harder and straightening up. She wipes a tear from her eye. “I got cold feet,” she confesses with an eye roll and a hair toss.
Chuckling, I swivel the hand that’s holding her wrist around to slip my fingers between hers. “Come on,” I chide, the fake accent coming easily to me now, and pull her back into the bar.
When we sit back down, she orders a whiskey neat, an order that surprises me, and sighs heavily with a smile as she sets her purse down. She looks like I lifted the weight of the world off her shoulders as she leans into the counter.
“What is there to get cold feet about?” I ask her with a smile, and she shrugs.
“I haven’t done this in a long time. And last time I did this, it ended with twins.”
It isn’t confirmation of what I already know, but it’s damn close.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“God, no. I don’t think we’re supposed to talk about exes on a first date.”
So it was an ex. Not one of us, then.
“You can talk about anything you want on a first date with me,” I reassure her, looking over the rim of my glass at her.
She squints her eyes, a smile playing delicately at her lips, and she says, “How about you talk first? I’m less likely to put my foot in my mouth. How long have you been in Washington?”
Caroline makes me want to be honest. What’s the point in lying when she has to die anyway? “Not long. I moved here this year.”
“I knew it!” she chirps. “I can always tell when someone has a non-native accent.”
I smile slightly, knowing just how non-native it is.
An Irish accent from my father, a Boston accent from my life, and a layer of Washington on top to cover it all up.
She’s so proud of herself for picking up on something different.
“I came here to settle some old debts. Things from my past that needed finishing.”
“I’m intrigued,” she says, poking out her bottom lip and crossing her legs. “So you’re more than just Paul, Insurance Guy?”
“Isn’t everyone? Aren’t you more than just Caroline, Preschool Teacher? I bet you have an interesting past too.”
“More like my past had an interesting Caroline.”
“Oh, I bet you’re plenty interesting. I’ll tell you some things I think are already interesting about you.
You take risks because you’re here, you’d die for your kids because you almost weren’t here, and you’re clearly a good friend because you have people willing to watch your kids at a moment’s notice.
But you’re independent too, aren’t you? That was hard for you. ”
She nibbles on her thumbnail, something I’m noticing she does a lot when anxious, sips her drink, and then sets it down hard. She leans in and whispers, “Does this work for you? You just say something vague enough like you’re reading a horoscope, and women fall into bed with you?”
I lean forward too, so our cheeks are touching, and I whisper into her ear, “Sometimes. Is it working?”
I see my breath displace her hair, and she shivers slightly, then laughs. “Maybe. Depends on what kind of old debts you have to settle. I don’t have any money to offer you.”
“I don’t want your money. I want you.” I say it firmly, looking straight into her eyes, so that there’s no question what I mean. “And I think you want me too.”
When she doesn’t respond, I quip, “Besides, it’s not that kind of debt. It’s more like someone saw something, and now I have to kill them.”
A surprised laugh shakes out of her, and she nods at the bartender that she’d like another drink.
The bar hums around us, but it’s just noise now.
She’s leaning in, head tilted, eyes wide with the kind of curiosity that only surfaces when someone finally lets their guard down.
Her elbow brushes mine. She doesn’t move away, and neither do I.
I let myself imagine, just for a second, that we’re any two people on a first date. Just for a second.
She scoots her elbow closer, glues it to mine, and smiles at me. Like she’s safe. She has no idea what I am or what I’ve done, what I’m capable of and what I will do. And if I do this right, if I keep her laughing, keep her smiling, she never will.
Not until it’s too late.