Chapter Fifteen
Some people enjoy hiking. Others, playing cards or knitting an afghan. They’ll tell you that it just does it for them, that something about it makes their life complete.
Well, killing people does that for me.
Maybe that’s what Brian needs—a hobby.
“Siri, play my Work Playlist on Spotify,” I say.
Music thumps from the speakers, and I roll down the windows and sing along as the playlist switches to Taylor Swift’s “Mastermind.” The town car two vehicles ahead of me seems to be heading for Austin, or maybe one of the smaller cities along the way.
But we pass the exit for the giant water park about halfway between the two cities, and I’m pretty sure the bigger city is our destination.
Puffy clouds speckle the blue sky. Green trees and unremarkable buildings dot the side of the highway.
It’s a beautiful Texas day, and soon, I get to kill this guy. I can’t wait.
The song changes, and as Demi Lovato sings about being confident, I let a smile play over my mouth.
This is it. This is the Big Job that’s going to show them I can do everything a man can.
That, in fact, I can do it better. That this mommy-tracked bullshit is, well, bullshit.
I’ve found my mark. Now all I have to do is plan the perfect murder.
The music cuts out.
My gaze flicks to the dash and dread erupts when I see the incoming call. The Texas Girls’ Academy, the caller ID reads.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I know it before I even answer: Eliza is sick again.
I hit the button on the door and the motor whirs as the window rolls up.
“Hello?” I accept the call on Bluetooth.
The fizz of static, and then, “Hi, is this Mrs. Davis?”
I clear my throat, press down on the gas, make sure the black car doesn’t get too far ahead of me as it weaves in and out of traffic—probably the driver, watching for a tail. “Speaking.”
“Hi, this is Annette, the nurse here at TGA.”
Today of all days. I swear to god this is how it always works.
The last time I had a doctor’s appointment, for example—the kind where you have to wrestle your feet into stirrups—Evie got sick with the flu, and I had to reschedule for another six months out.
Which, honestly, I wasn’t that mad about, but still.
“Hi, Annette.”
“I’m afraid Eliza says her stomach is bothering her.”
I glance at the dash that counts up, showing how many seconds I’ve been on the phone, as though I can see Annette’s face and she can see mine, along with the incredulous look I must be wearing.
“Okaaay.” I draw the word out, and that familiar ache comes to my jaw as I clench it once again.
Please tell me she’s not trying to persuade me to pick my kid up because she has a stomachache. For five-year-olds, that means one of two things: they’re nervous about something or they need to poop. Knowing my kid, it’s the latter.
“Do you mind coming to get her?” Annette asks in a disgustingly sweet singsong that should be reserved only for children.
“I’m working, actually. Is she sick or just saying that her stomach hurts?”
“Um…” Annette’s holding back. Trying to be polite. Trying to not say Just come get your kid, lady, because most moms at TGA are either stay-at-home or professionals who have a full-time nanny.
“Listen, if she’s not actually sick—like not throwing up, doesn’t have a fever—she should be in school. Right?” I turn it around, put it on Annette to tell me it’s preferable my daughter is not in class when she is, in fact, fine. “Or have you had her try to go to the bathroom?”
You would think she’d get the message. You would also be wrong.
“Well, my philosophy is to listen to the child. If they say they are sick, then they are sick.”
My mouth opens, but I snap it shut before I say something like Are you fucking kidding me?
“Let me call you back.”
The town car takes a random exit last second, and I go on alert, tensing my hands on the steering wheel—maybe they’ve spotted me. They zoom off the highway, braking hard so they don’t go straight through the stop sign at the top of the turnoff.
But I just smile because two can play this game.
I keep driving past the exit. A quick peek in my rearview mirror, and sure enough, they pull right back onto I-35.
This job is no joke; whoever this is has a fancy driver with evasive techniques.
They are cautious, aware of their surroundings.
In other words, this person is no doubt a big deal.
And I’m going to kill them.
Just as soon as I sort out the situation with my five-year-old.
“Siri, call Piper.” I move over and coast along in the center lane. Maybe my sister can pick Eliza up. Her phone rings and rings, until finally, voicemail answers. I hang up, and a text comes through a second later: In a meeting. You ok?
Of course, she’s busy.
“Siri, call Graham.” My hopes are now with my big brother, who has always liked coming to my rescue. As a result, I avoid asking him for help unless I absolutely need it. And today, I do. This is the job of a lifetime. My kid needing to poop isn’t going to get in the way of killing this guy.
It rings once before his voice fills the line. “Little sis!”
“Hi. What are you doing?”
A chuckle. “I’m working. Why?”
I check my side mirrors. The town car is coming up in the right lane, speeding just fast enough to pass me in a couple moments. We’re only a few miles from Austin, where I’ll have to be more careful to not be spotted.
“I don’t suppose you could pick Eliza up from school?”
A pause. “She okay? You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just—” I turn my blinker on, merge into the right lane. “I’m working, and the school nurse told me she has a stomachache.”
“She called you for a stomachache?”
“Don’t get me started.” As a fellow parent, he gets it.
“Sure. I’ll go get Eliza Bug. I’ll ask if her stomach hurts too bad for ice cream.”
That draws a laugh from me. “Okay, thanks. I’ll call the nurse back and let her know to expect you.”
“When do you think you’ll come get her?”
The clock reads almost eleven a.m., but I have to account for traffic and errands. “By pickup time, so three at the latest?”
“Cool. Text when you’re headed this way.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” We disconnect, I call the nurse back, then sit back in relief: one problem solved.
Five minutes later, I exit the highway, two cars between the target and myself.
I spare a moment to wonder who the woman is.
Did whoever sent the package know she’d be there?
After all, the riddle specifies the mark is a man.
But it notably didn’t say to make sure the woman lives.
I try very hard to not have collateral damage and never kill an innocent.
But she’s in the car with him. A girlfriend, a wife?
Or maybe a call girl. Or—I acknowledge my own sexism—a coworker. She was in a suit.
They weave through Austin and stop in front of a Four Seasons.
I raise a brow—not bad. Brian and I stayed at a Four Seasons on our honeymoon, and it cost about a thousand bucks a night. Granted, we didn’t get the cheapest room, but we didn’t get a top floor suite either. Whoever this is has money.
Which is likely why someone is willing to pay top dollar to have him killed.
I pull into one of the parking spots the mere plebeians use.
Meanwhile, the town car parks under the covered area at the entrance.
Stepping from the car, I keep what’s in my hand down by my side, but at the ready.
This isn’t the time to kill whoever this is, just to identify them, be able to find them a second time.
Not to mention the fact that John has yet to fulfill his promise.
I still don’t know why someone wants this guy dead.
But I’ll sort that out for myself. Whoever it is, they have a professional driver who knows how to watch for a tail, a fancy Cadillac with custom tinted windows.
And they’re paying a lot to stay at the Four Seasons.
They’re not nobody. Which means they’re somebody—somebody worth killing.
I smile in satisfaction at that knowledge.
The driver goes around, opens the door. He offers a hand, and the woman steps out.
My eyes narrow at her outfit change. No longer does she wear a simple gray pantsuit with flats.
Instead, she’s shiny and eye-catching in a clingy red number, lipstick giving her a serious pout, heels to match. Frumpy to fuck me, just like that.
I raise my camera, snap three photos, rapid-fire, just like how I shoot my gun. My gaze lifts to the security cameras. I’ll need to leave fast. Likely, my paparazzi-like ways will be noticed at a place like this. But first I have to see him. The man I can’t wait to kill. And I will, soon.
My breath comes out stilted, and I think to myself, This is almost too easy.
He steps from the Cadillac, all confidence and swagger, straightening his suit jacket, buttoning it.
I smirk, because even from here, he’s giving off entitled asshole vibes.
His back is to me, and I hold my camera at the ready, zoomed in.
I’ll get a great shot of his face the moment he glances my direction.
I ready my finger over the camera’s button.
He says something to the driver, palms him what I imagine is a tip. The driver gives him a nod and shuts the door.
Finally, the man turns, giving me his profile.
I hit the shutter button fast, one, two, three—his features a blur as the shutter snaps repeatedly.
I wait for him to turn my way so I can get a solid photo of his face.
I’ll be able to enter it in a search, figure out who he really is and what horrible things he’s done that have placed him on someone’s kill list.
But when he glances my direction, I don’t push the button. I don’t snap the photo. And I won’t need to look up who he is.
Because I already know.