Chapter Eleven
I can’t get home fast enough.
The pharmacist is temporarily forgotten—she still needs to die, but I might die if I don’t open what is obviously the package. I need to find out what’s inside, who the Big Job will be, and how I will have the pleasure of going about killing them.
By the time I reach the house, I’m thrumming with excitement.
Bear greets me at the door, and I give her a pat, let her out back to sniff.
Upstairs, I make my way into the closet, then the hidden room, and settle myself on the soft carpet I had installed along with the door.
The envelope is unremarkable, white like any other that might come in the mail, and that makes it even more mysterious.
I press a thumb under the seal, careful not to tear whatever’s inside.
A single folded piece of printer paper floats out in a trifold, like an official letter.
When I open it, I frown. This is…unusual.
Details are usually scribbled in pen, and always in a different handwriting, or occasionally typed out.
A few facts, such as pharmacist, woman, coffee shop 9:30 a.m., dry cap hazelnut, accident—keeping it vague, but allowing me to identify the mark, when and where I’ll find them, and any details on the nature of the kill.
But this…this is not that. This is a freaking poem. An amateur one at that.
On May 10th, you may take a walk,
Go to where the concrete stops,
Secrets cloaked in bindings tight,
A lover you’ll follow into the bright,
He’ll point the way,
Then you may,
Take a stab, it is the man,
Do it fast, if you can.
Take a walk. Working my jaw, I think of all the places I’ve pushed the girls in a stroller or gone on a walk myself.
This could mean anything, be anywhere. If it’s literal, San Antonio is filled with trails.
Our own neighborhood has one that winds through the woods, past a community garden, following a creek.
And there’s a larger path that circumnavigates the whole city.
The note says where the concrete stops—so maybe not the concrete trail, but a dirt one, or where water begins.
Perhaps by the creek, the Olmos Basin area, a big open park filled with hulking oak trees, a playground, a baseball field.
I picture the space, how sometimes I take Eliza and Evie there to play, to wander the path looking for toads.
But that doesn’t feel right. Secrets cloaked in bindings tight? A lover you’ll follow…
My first thought is a porn shop. The sort that sells flavored condoms and bondage rope.
So I need to go to a sex store? Follow a lover into the—bright?
I realize I’m smirking as I reread the poem.
This isn’t my normal thing—but it is kind of exciting.
My own personal puzzle to decode, to put into action.
If this is what getting a Big Job is all about, I’m in.
It’s tickling a part of my brain I didn’t realize needed a little attention—that was starting to feel like all these jobs are the same.
A note, a mark eliminated. Wham, bam. The satisfaction of a job well-done, the thrill of a kill, the relief of the pressure that builds when I go too long between hits.
But this, this is fun.
Just then, the phone in my hand rings, the screen flashing Brian’s name.
“Hello?”
“Hey, your car’s in the driveway, but you’re not home. Are you on a run?”
Shit. I scramble to my feet. I forgot all about him coming home to pack a bag, to prepare to leave town. Or maybe I assumed he’d already done that. Either way, the last thing I considered was Brian being in our house.
I drop the note and scurry through the tiny entrance to my hidey-hole. I carefully push the bookshelf shut, peer out the door of the closet and into the room. He’s not there, thank god. “I’m in my office,” I tell him.
“I just checked in there.”
A second later, he opens the door to find me at my desk, poring over a Brides magazine, pen in hand, serene smile of a woman who plans happy events—instead of deadly ones—pasted on my face.
“Huh. I thought…” His brow furrows, but he pockets his phone, leans in the doorway, adjusts the frames of his glasses. I can’t help noticing the way his shoulders bunch, his biceps bulge beneath his clothing—my own romance cover model, right before me, but I have to stay strong. No more kids!
His dark eyes linger on me. “Can we talk?”
“Um, sure.” I gesture for him to have a seat on the daybed. I imagine jumping him and his muscly shoulders, a thing I never cared about before I met him. I could distract him from all this serious talk, avoid it entirely. But I probably shouldn’t.
Brian’s good like this—working through our issues.
Talking about them. Far better than I am.
I’m more likely to tuck it away, to pretend it doesn’t exist, until it’s big enough that I absolutely must say something.
Usually with my voice raised. It’s one more thing I appreciate about him, another way he grounds me and helps me keep my darkness reined in.
He steps in, looks cautiously around the room—the wedding crap is doing its job of making him uncomfortable—and lowers himself to sit.
He wears a suit, though he’s removed his dress shoes, leaving him in dark socks.
Somehow, it’s sexy. He fidgets, works his jaw, glances down at his hands.
Nervous. My lips curve up, and for the briefest moment, I wonder if he’s being low-key sexy on purpose.
But no. Brian’s not calculated like that.
“We just never talked about it, you know?” he finally begins.
“We had Evie, and everything is wonderful, and we have this great life, and…” His gaze swivels around the room, those dark eyes full of something.
An emotion I can’t identify—he looks oddly vulnerable.
I set the magazine down and lean forward.
I want to identify it, so badly. If I knew what it was, I’d know how to respond, what to say, how to fix this.
“I just think another kid would make it more, you know?” He looks at me, starts to speak again in earnest—then shakes his head, clamps his mouth shut, and looks down. Like there’s more he wants to say but he can’t. Or won’t.
I stare at him, all thoughts of sexy time washed away like I’m standing in an icy cold shower.
No, I want to say, I don’t know. “More?” I ask. “Like…what we have isn’t enough?” I tilt my head, trying to understand, willing him to be open with me.
“Don’t you feel like we’re missing something?” He finally looks at me again, really looks at me, as though he can see into my soul.
Thank god he can’t.
Or maybe…it’s possible that’s what’s missing. That I don’t share everything with him, that I can’t. Perhaps that is this blank space he senses, even if he can’t put his finger on what it is. But I can’t tell him that.
“I don’t feel like we’re missing anything. I feel like we have everything we need. More, even.”
“I don’t mean stuff, I mean—” His phone rings, a sharp jangle that cuts us both off. He pulls it from a pocket, looks down at it, sighs. “I have to go. I’m sorry, babe. Talk more later?”
I nod, forcing a smile as he leans in, presses a kiss to my lips, then disappears out the door.
It’s normal for couples to argue. To disagree.
The first time we ever fought, I was sure I’d ruined the one good thing I had going for me.
Then I read a book about relationships, learned that the occasional fight is a good thing.
That, in fact, it’s often a sign of a relationship being unhealthy if there’s no arguing, ever.
And that’s all this is, I tell myself. A small thing we will work through.
He’s nearly forty—maybe it’s the beginning of a midlife crisis?
Or he’s bored with his everyday life. I’ll encourage him to buy something—a newer BMW, maybe, or a boat; he’s always wanted one.
I can give him extra attention, surprise him with a romantic weekend away.
I could throw in some new lingerie—oh, he’d love that.
Isn’t that what normal wives do? Cosmo has certainly suggested as much.
Brian will realize what we have is perfect, that we already have everything we need, and this talk of another baby will stop.
Yes. That will do the trick.
I’ll handle it right after I carry out this Big Job. Like anything, this little issue with Brian can be solved with proper planning and execution of said plan.
I smile to myself: problem solved.