Chapter Sixteen
I turn on my heel and hurry toward the rental car.
I don’t look back, don’t check to see if he spotted me—I’m pretty sure he didn’t—and tuck myself into the now-sweltering Toyota Camry.
The leather sticks to my skin and burns.
I ignore it, too consumed with a buzzing in my brain, a siren wailing in my head that something is wrong, very wrong.
I start up the car and reverse out of the parking spot without waiting for the AC to kick in, zooming toward the highway.
I’m not sure I even breathe again until I hit seventy-five miles per hour, steadying myself in the center lane.
Were cops not waiting to pull over speeders, if a gun was not tucked beneath my seat, I’d press the gas pedal down harder, drive faster, let the rush of speed replace the cold flush of…whatever emotion this is, seeping through my pores.
Fear, I realize. Cold, plain fear.
Finally, I let myself acknowledge who that man was.
Brian. It was Brian.
My husband.
Or—I pause to consider—maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he just looks really similar. They say everyone has a twin, right? Or perhaps it was a trick of the light, the angle at which—
I smack the dash, pain vibrating through my palm. The ache settles me, lets me focus on driving and staying in control of the car. Of myself.
The man I sleep beside each night.
The father of my children.
My companion in life, who I drink coffee with on our back patio and beer with on date nights and apparently…
My next hit.
It doesn’t make sense. It can’t possibly be him.
My Brian is in Washington, DC. He called me from there, sent me photos of himself in front of the White House, the freaking cherry blossom trees that bloom every spring.
He checked in, apologized for putting me on the spot.
He even called from a hotel room last night and FaceTimed with the girls.
I have a normal, healthy marriage, one that keeps me sane, keeps my feet planted firmly on the ground and not in Killersville, USA.
Unless I don’t.
Unless it’s all a lie.
My hands tremble on the steering wheel, and I focus on the road, on fleeing Austin and returning to San Antonio.
When I turn off the highway, I follow the winding suburban street back to my neighborhood, but I don’t go home.
Instead, I drive to a park, a broad expanse of green surrounded by forest. Teenagers play soccer in one corner, a mother jogs with a stroller on the path that lines the edge of the grass.
This is a mistake. I’ve made a mistake.
I shut off the engine and get out of the car, pacing back and forth over the concrete of the parking lot. It wasn’t him. It can’t be. And I’ve just lost my mark, a total newbie move, something I haven’t done in years. I should have followed him, should have learned his patterns. Instead, I ran.
Still, I can’t shake who I saw—my husband, I’d swear it.
I pull out my DSLR camera, peer at the tiny screen as I flick back through the last several photos.
Photos of the man’s profile. His jawline, the trace of a beard, a smile as he spoke to the woman.
And blond, floppy hair, just like Brian’s.
It looks like him. It really does. My body is practically numb, my hands drip with nervous sweat.
I can kill someone without so much as blinking, but this—this has me all sorts of mixed-up.
I snatch up my phone, hit the call button on Brian’s contact info. I need to hear his voice, to know he is out there, that we are okay.
“Hey, babe. How are you?” His voice—my husband’s familiar, jovial tone—does nothing to calm my fears.
“Hey,” I choke out. “How are you?”
“Good. Just enjoying DC. It’s warm here, but I love the people. It’s so different than Texas.” A half laugh. “In a good way. I’m about to head into a meeting. Can I call you back?”
So, he’s still there. In DC. Or at least he says he is.
Something flickers in my brain, some memory.
He says it’s warm. A flashback hits me: Washington, DC, a few years ago when I traveled there for a job.
I killed a wealthy socialite who was trafficking children.
It was still chilly, and I wore a jacket—a jacket I didn’t bring home with me, because it snagged on the corner of a bookshelf, ripping the shoulder wide open as I made my escape.
The cherry blossoms were blooming then, bright pink, the whole city blazing with color.
I remember thinking it was the most beautiful place I’d ever killed someone.
March. It was March, just after St. Patrick’s Day, and Eliza’s daycare had a party with green cupcakes…
And now it’s May. It’s warm and—
“Eliza is sick again,” I say to buy time. I put the phone on speaker, swipe to my web browser, do a quick internet search: When do the cherry blossom trees bloom in Washington, DC?
The answer at the top says: On average, cherry blossom trees bloom in late March or the first week of April. However, this can vary by a week or two either direction.
That coldness returns, deep in the pit of my stomach, despite the already eighty-five-degree day.
Brian is talking, saying something like, “…the doctor, maybe? I mean, if this keeps happening—”
I tune him out. Swipe to the photos he sent that I saved on my phone to show to the girls.
I zoom in. Note the cherry blossoms, the jacket he sports because it’s spring when this photo was taken and still chilly.
My conclusion leaves me breathless.
He’s lying. There’s no way this photo is from the past week, or likely even the month of May. The trees can’t possibly be blooming this late.
“I’ll look into it,” I tell him, which should work for just about anything he’s said. “How much longer do you think you’ll be in DC?”
It’s a trap, and he steps right into it.
“Maybe another day? Two? I’ll text you when I book a flight home.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
We disconnect, and I lean back against the Camry, realization settling in.
My husband is not in DC. My husband is lying to me.
And my husband is the man I am supposed to kill.