The Kill Clause

Chapter 1

Ilike to think that Santa and I have a lot in common. First, there’s the breaking and entering. At this, we both have special skills, honed over time.

This house, one of those big white concrete-and-glass slabs that the rich seem to favor these days, is isolated.

I easily scaled the fence surrounding the property over by the eastern border, where I happen to know that one of the motion-activated security cameras is on the blink.

Not by accident. Likewise, my swift and silent passage alongside the glittering pool, black in the darkness, reflecting the moon, fails to activate the security floodlights. Also not a random malfunction.

Now I stand at the side door, the one that leads into the house through the mudroom.

There’s no lockpicking anymore, not at this level.

Keys are out. Keypads are in. Codes and fingerprint scans, retina recognition.

Seems so modern and secure but almost childishly easy to hack if you have access and know what you’re doing.

Which I do. I press my thumbprint to the scanner.

The door silently clicks open. Honestly, it’s almost disappointing how easy everything has become.

I push inside.

The dog, a big black Akita named Luke, is at the vet. Also not an accident. Don’t worry. He’ll be fine. I don’t hurt animals.

About to punch in the alarm code at the console on the wall, I see he didn’t even set it. Careless.

The other thing Santa and I have in common is a list. I know if you’ve been naughty or nice. In my case, if you’ve been very naughty and managed to anger the wrong people, I may be coming to see you in the night. I know when you are sleeping. I know when you’re awake.

But that’s where the similarities end.

Santa comes to give.

I take.

Oh, this place. It’s a palace of veined marble, bleached wood floors, and sixteen-foot ceilings.

I’ve been here before. But I walk through now, just to make sure everything is as I remember it.

I run my hand along the sectional that looks like poured concrete.

I happen to know that it’s surprisingly plush, squishy like a sponge.

Simple, abstract humanoid sculptures pose on shelves, low tables—dancing, standing at the ready, embracing.

I like to think of his decor as spaceship-meets-luxury chic.

Billboard-size art on impossibly large walls, a glass-enclosed fireplace, a restaurant-size kitchen with a refrigerator that cost more than my first car.

I’m no socialist, but no one needs this much money.

Don’t get me wrong. I like nice things, too, but some people have too much.

I listen. Silence.

His bedroom is at the end of the long hallway behind the kitchen.

He takes an Ambien at ten, dons his eye mask and earplugs.

And he’s essentially dead. The arrogance of that amuses me.

That a person could feel so safe in the world that he has no compunction about dulling all his senses to sleep.

That he could make himself so vulnerable, so defenseless for eight straight hours.

That, more than anything else he has, communicates his extreme privilege.

The towering artificial Christmas tree blinks in the corner.

I saw it from outside as I approached the house.

White lights only, of course. No ornaments.

Silver, not green. A modernistic nod to the holiday, devoid of any personality, sentiment, or religion.

It tracks; he’s empty. That was the first thing I noticed about him—that flat, dead, entitled expression some men have.

Like the world owes them. Like they can speak but don’t have to listen.

Like they can take but only give when it serves them.

Like other people exist to fulfill their needs and for no other reason.

I heard him refer to his staff as NPCs, non-player characters, like in a video game.

Just set dressing. He was joking. But he wasn’t.

Do I sound angry?

I’m not. I’m just fed up. Aren’t you?

He was a surprisingly decent fuck, though. In bed, he was present, creative, attentive, even. Not rough, not vacantly pumping and grunting. It wasn’t bad.

Anyway, someone is angry. Or a debt must be paid. Or he’s someone’s scapegoat. Or he’s a piece in a puzzle the full complexity of which won’t be revealed until much later, and not necessarily to me. Above my pay grade. Not my business. As I’m often told.

I move through the kitchen, catch my reflection in the plate glass doors leading to the pool deck. Slim, all in black, baseball hat. Not recognizable as male or female. Just a shape in a field of shadows. A wraith.

I move down the hallway. His door is open. I can hear his white noise machine, a fuzzy sound that serves only to annoy me.

I enter the room and stand over him. He’s on his back, arms spread. He trusts the sun to rise tomorrow. And of course it will. But he won’t see it.

For this job, I’ve chosen an ice pick. It’s fast, effective, and silent, and there’s minimal mess. Whoever finds him—probably the maid—won’t see things she can’t unsee. It does require focused speed, physical strength, and the right leverage. There will be no margin for error.

Under other circumstances a job like this might need to look like an accident. An overdose, maybe. A car accident. A heart attack. But no such instruction has been offered, so I’m free to improvise.

The ice pick is in a long pocket of my cargo pants. I breathe and reach for it.

Then I’m startled by a sound behind me.

I spin to see a slight figure framed in the bedroom doorway. Wild white-blond hair, spindly legs, an oversize nightshirt with a glittery unicorn dancing across a field of stars.

Apple. She’s four. And she’s not supposed to be here tonight.

And just like that, I’m time traveling. I am eight, hiding in the closet of my bedroom, watching through the slats as my father beats my mother to the ground.

He’s kicking her, and her eyes seem to meet mine, warning me.

Her last words to me. Stay in here, and don’t come out until I get you.

No matter what you hear. Promise me. We thought we were free of him. But he found us.

Now, my throat is dry, heart pounding in my ears.

“Hey, honey,” I say softly.

“I’m thirsty,” Apple says.

“Okay. Let’s get you a glass of water.”

I walk toward her and easily lift her into my arms, balance her on my hip.

She’s a little wisp of a thing. Smart and sweet, seriously into mythical creatures.

We’ve met once, recently. That’s probably why she’s not scared of me now.

Or maybe I’m just one of many strange women she’s found in her father’s bedroom.

“I had a bad dream,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry. Dreams can be scary. But they can’t hurt you.”

I glance back at her father, but he hasn’t stirred.

In the kitchen, she points to a cabinet next to the sink as I put her down. “My cups are in there.”

“Which cup is your favorite?” I ask.

“The purple one with the flowers.”

“Got it.”

I fill it with water, put on the sippy lid, and reach for her hand. We walk back to her princess room—all fluffy pillows and walls painted with nature scenes, rafts of stuffed animals and shelves of books, pink and white. Her bed is gigantic. She looks tiny, like a doll, as I tuck her back in.

“Are you one of daddy’s friends?” she asks.

“That’s right. Remember, we colored that time?”

She nods, looking at me uncertainly. She doesn’t remember, but she’s already learned to be polite, not to offend. They teach us young to please, not to hurt feelings.

“If you’re here in the morning,” she says, “Daddy will make pancakes, and we can color some more.”

“I’d really like that. But only if you go back to sleep right now, okay?”

“Okay,” she says. She’s already drifty, eyelids heavy. I back out of the room and close the door softly. I wait, listening. Wondering if she’ll get back up. But the minutes tick by. Silence again.

What a colossal fuckup. Fuck. Fuck.

Company protocol dictates that I finish the job tonight.

And part of that is making sure there are no witnesses.

I work very hard to minimize collateral damage on my jobs.

Some of my colleagues don’t care about that.

I do. No way I’m killing a kid. No way I’m killing her father to have her be the one to find him in the morning. Sorry. Even I have my limits.

I am on thin ice at work. I really can’t afford this mistake. There have been a number of them in recent years. My boss has hinted that I’m losing my edge, that my heart isn’t in the work the way it used to be. I’m not sure what to say to that or what it means for my professional security.

Whatever.

This is a redo. I retrace my steps out through the mudroom, locking the door behind me.

Slipping across the property, scaling that wall, returning breathless to my car, parked a mile down the deserted rural road.

Now, I am angry. What if Apple had really needed something with her father in his Ambien coma?

What if someone had come for her? Fathers are supposed to protect their children, not selfishly tend to their own needs.

My distaste for him, which was considerable, grows.

I text my boss, Nora. Job incomplete. Unforeseen complications. Will redo tomorrow.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Apple will definitely be with her mother. I’ll come back for him then. What difference will one night make? Hopefully I don’t run into Santa.

My phone pings. The words on the screen make me go a little cold.

Job canceled. Report to office in the a.m.

I’m vibrating, adrenaline, cortisol careening through my system.

Job stress. It’s a real killer.