Chapter Eight
When I rejoin Brian at the table, I must be beaming.
“Everything okay?” he asks in an uncertain voice, clutching his beer like maybe he’ll need it. It’s not his fault—I often have RKF, or resting killer face. We don’t smile a lot, and when we do, it’s rarely for something good.
“Everything’s great. I just found out I got a job.”
“Oh.”
I remember a second too late I was supposed to be using the ladies’ room, not answering work calls. “It was a text,” I say. “I checked with Piper to make sure the girls were okay, and it came through.”
He nods in understanding, gives me a grin that reaches his eyes. He leans forward, adjusts his glasses. “That’s really great, babe. I’m so glad your business is going well. I wasn’t sure, after you had the girls, if you’d want to keep working, and…” Brian shrugs. “I’m just glad you’re happy.”
“Thanks.” I adjust the cloth napkin on my lap, try to not think about how I actually do feel bad for lying to him.
I don’t usually have much of a conscience about such things.
I’m not a pathological liar or anything—I’ve just never had a problem not telling the truth when it’s convenient.
But something about us creating this life together over the past decade makes me want to be honest with him. Or at least as honest as I can be.
It wasn’t always this way—when we first got married, I lied all the time.
He was a convenience, after all. A guy I met who didn’t irritate me, who sometimes seemed to have this elusive quality of something—I wasn’t sure what—that drew me to him.
Then one day I realized I actually loved him.
That I had something I didn’t want to lose.
I’d grown up loving my mom and dad, my siblings—but I thought I’d never love anyone else.
People like me weren’t graced with that ability.
All of my mother’s psychology books said so.
Then I realized those books were from the 1980s and wildly outdated.
That actually, like so many things, psychopathy exists on a spectrum.
In fact, the term psychopath itself is outdated, mostly used by the media to shock viewers and readers.
In reality, people like me do have emotions—even if they are blunted. But we are capable of love.
A twinge of sadness hits me, but I try to push it back: Brian will never know the truth about me, who Nadia Davis really is.
Neither will my girls. They can’t know, not only because it would put their lives in danger, but because it would end our family for good, and I need them to keep me sane, normal, okay.
The one thing that does land me on the psychopathic spectrum is an inner pressure that builds up, a need to do something, to feel more, to step beyond this fuzzy, numbed-out version of the world I otherwise experience.
For me, that means killing. Only ending a life releases that pressure, lets me come back down to a version of myself my family knows and loves.
I’m well aware they wouldn’t love the other side of me—the part where a monster who lives inside comes out to play.
I take a big gulp of beer, suddenly feeling the burden of this Big Job. I can do it, just like I told John. I want to do it. And I already said yes, so it’s done.
I glance around, hoping our appetizer will make its way over soon. Fried pickles might not be everyone’s favorite way to start a meal, but they are definitely mine. And right now, half a beer in and buzzing with excitement, I could use calories.
“How’s the PTA going?”
“I have a thing tomorrow morning—” As if our server heard my thoughts, the sizzling plate arrives, accompanied by myriad dipping sauces. I snatch up the ranch, the only one worth using.
Brian chuckles across the table. “Hungry?”
“Yes,” I grumble, scrunching my nose playfully at him.
“You know, the last time you were this excited about fried pickles you were—” His words die off. I meet his gaze across the table. “You’re not—”
“No!” I almost choke, suddenly very sober. “I am not pregnant.” All the same, my stomach wobbles the way I imagine every woman of reproductive age’s does when anyone so much as suggests she possibly has a collection of cells taking up space rent-free in her abdomen. “Don’t even say that.”
I barely contain a derisive snort—the last thing we need is another kid. Then I’d really not get any work done. Sneaking out to kill someone in the middle of the night is infinitely more difficult when a baby is latched on to your boob.
I’ve eaten two whole pickle chips when I realize Brian hasn’t said anything, and I look up, chewing through the crunchy bit. He’s watching me, expressionless.
“What?”
“Would it be so bad? To have another baby? We always talked about having a girl and a boy.”
“And then we had two girls.” There’s a certain finality in my voice, and I can tell by the way he flinches that he doesn’t like it.
“All I’m saying—”
“I’m thirty-five.”
“That’s not too old.”
“I don’t want to—”
“But just think, we might have a boy!”
“Brian—” I make myself stop, swallow, wash down my food with beer. “I don’t want to do it again.”
“Have a baby?”
“Any of it.” I press my hands down on the table, lower my voice. “Waking up in the middle of the night, diapers, not having five seconds alone all day, every day—”
“Piper is around to help.” Brian smiles, as if that sorts out everything, as though she’s not busy with a life of her own, as well as completely ignoring the part where he’s the other parent here. He raises his hand to signal for another round.
“But you’re not. And I don’t want to do it alone.
” I try to say it kindly—try to not sound bitter, because I don’t hold it against him.
I treasured those moments with my girls.
I chose to be home with them. But it was also incredibly difficult, and the thought of doing it again—well, that’s a hard no.
The stricken look on his face tells me it was exactly the wrong thing to say, regardless of my tone, but it’s the truth.
I take a swallow of my beer and look imploringly at him.
“I love you, and I love our kids, but you work all day, and sometimes late, past their bedtime. You leave town for whole weeks at a time. You help when you’re home, but—” You’re not the one wiping butts.
Or making every meal. Or playing taxicab, or— I sigh.
“No. I don’t want to have another kid. And also”—I keep going, since he’s acting like I’m the one being unreasonable—“I want to do my job. I want to take on more work, not less. I can’t do that with a baby. ”
“I’m just saying…” He stops, and we both fall silent. “Fine.”
We finish the evening in an awkward half silence, trading only necessary words. It hadn’t even occurred to me he’d want another child. Evie was born three years ago, and I assumed we were done.
Uneasiness opens up inside me, this new realization, this thing I missed. I watch him so carefully, wanting to understand his thoughts, his desires, what he needs from a wife, from our marriage. Trying to fit the mold of an ideal spouse. How did I not notice?
It dampens my excitement, and by the time we get back home, I’m relieved to find the girls already in bed.
Piper has helped herself to a glass (or three) of wine (“My date canceled, I’m a little tipsy, can I sleep here?”), and all I want to do is get to work.
“Of course,” I tell her. “You can sleep on the couch. Or there’s a daybed in my office.”
“I’m good here. I don’t have to move that way.” She splays out over the gray couch, her wineglass just barely upright.
“What happened?” I ask. “Wait, was this the second date from the other night?”
“You mean, what happened besides him canceling?” She sniffles. “And yeah. It was supposed to be.”
“Why did he cancel?” I sit down next to her.
“He said he had food poisoning, but you know that’s code for ‘I never want to see you again.’ ” Her face screws up like she might burst into tears, and I realize she actually likes this guy. With Piper, it’s hard to know. Men are often entertainment to her more than anything.
“Maybe he just has food poisoning.” I pat her on the shoulder, find some crackers and a bottle of water, and tell her to get some sleep. “Besides, if he’s not feeling it, it’s not going to work regardless.”
“Easy for you to say. You just got back from a date with your husband. With rings and shit.”
“Rings and shit?” I quirk a brow at her. She’d just love to hear about the conversation we had over dinner. I can imagine her now, going on about how he should try carrying a baby and being the default parent for a second.
“You know, rings.” She grabs my left hand, points to the sparkling diamond on my finger.
I open my mouth, then slam it shut. Once, Piper had who she thought would be a life partner.
They’d looked at engagement bands and everything.
He was perfect, she’d insisted, kind and considerate, and he showered her with gifts.
Maybe she thought she could overlook the abuse, or thought it was her own fault, or that she’d change him once they got married.
But men like that don’t change—they escalate.
Killing him in what appeared to be a tragic accident was my only safe option.
Even breaking up with people like him is dangerous, if I could have ever persuaded her to do so.
I thought she’d be sad, then realize it was a blessing in disguise. I thought she’d get over it.
Instead, she lost all interest in dating.
Or, more accurately, commitment. Come to think of it, she loves dating and has turned it into her own personal sport.
Don’t get me wrong—there’s nothing wrong with wanting to do life on your own.
I just wonder if she’s chosen it because of what happened in her first serious relationship. Because of me.
“Since when do you care about getting married?” I ask gently.
“I don’t.” She shuts her eyes. I scoop her wineglass out of her hand just before it slips from her fingertips.
Once I’ve tucked her in with a blanket, I head upstairs to peek in on the girls and change into joggers and a tank top.
Then I return to the first floor to check on my husband.
The front door slaps shut, and I spy him crossing the lawn, Bear on a leash—out for a quick walk before bed.
Luckily, he’s left his nightly cup of peppermint tea to cool on the counter, and I sprinkle crushed hydroxyzine into it.
I don’t need him barging into my office when I’m in the middle of pulling apart my AR-10.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve washed my face and done my nighttime routine (even assassins like to have nice skin) when I walk into the bedroom to find him tucked beneath the sheets.
“Just gonna watch a show and go to sleep,” he says.
I swallow, force myself to work through the strong desire to give him the silent treatment. Don’t go to bed mad and all that. “I’ll be in after a while,” I say.
“Work?” he asks, and there’s a tone—definitely a tone.
Or maybe he’s just hurt I feel so strongly about not growing our family.
When he rolls over, giving me his back, I wish for the hundredth time that I could snuggle in beside him and tell him everything—express my excitement about this upcoming job, my nerves that someday I’ll get caught and destroy our family, but that I can’t stop or I’ll destroy far more.
It’s impossible though, so I leave the room and go to my office to prepare.