Chapter 4
That first night in the field with Julian went smoothly.
We connected with our targets at the blackjack table: Roxanne, a wiry brunette dripping in diamonds, and Nick, a too-handsome man-baby who sulked when he lost. He had Death Before Dishonor tattooed on his thickly muscled arm even though he’d never served in the marines.
I had spent the day in the salon and wore a dress Nora had sent for me.
When I looked in the mirror, I hardly recognized myself.
Alice, young newlywed, fitness influencer, wealthy, stunning, a big ring on my finger.
Not little Paige, abused child who watched my father kill my mother while I hid in a closet; not the foster kid whose clothes were always borrowed, donated, or given, never her own, who went to bed at night praying that the door to her room wouldn’t open; not the teenager who was emancipated from the foster care system with nowhere to go and was taken in by Maxine just by sheer luck—or where would I have wound up?
No, in Vegas I was Alice, rich, married, and safe, with a knife strapped to the inside of my thigh under my painted-on dress.
My weapon of choice. I flashed on the doe whose throat I had slit, her big eyes staring, her leg twitching.
There was grief, sadness. But there was also power. No one would ever hurt me again.
After a big win, and more vodka than I’d ever seen two people consume, some cocaine, a joint, Nick became quietly aggressive, his hand on my waist, his voice low in my ear.
Paige retreated deep inside, while Alice lapped up the attention, even letting him put his hand inside her dress while Roxanne flirted with Julian.
“My love with Roxanne,” he whispered. “It’s generous. We both like to share. Do you understand?”
I made a show of looking over at Julian and Roxanne. She had her arms around his neck, and he was smiling broadly, then issuing a belly laugh at something she said.
“I think I do,” I said shyly.
They were so outrageously intoxicated that neither of them noticed Julian and I were stone-cold sober, hadn’t consumed a single drop of alcohol.
“There are cameras everywhere,” I whispered to Julian as they stumbled down the hallway ahead of us, laughing.
“We’re ghosts,” Julian said. “Alice and Steve Egan don’t even exist.”
In the room, Nick stripped down to his boxer briefs, and Roxanne slipped out of her dress to reveal red lace undergarments.
Then she walked over to me, took my hair out of its updo, and put her lips to my neck, then my mouth.
My second kiss. She started to unzip my dress, but I stopped her.
The knife. Instead, I backed her toward the bed.
Her eyes were blank. She was so fucked up, pupils dilated.
It didn’t seem fair. Suddenly, I wanted to leave, but Julian had me pinned with his gaze, like he knew.
“First,” he said, grabbing a bottle of champagne from the bar.
Their suite was twice the size of ours, bigger by far than my childhood home, the night outside a Technicolor display of lights twinkling, flashing.
Marquees, blinking signs, fountains, a thousand hotel rooms, a hundred shows, headlights, taillights, everything in motion. “A toast.”
He took champagne flutes from a cabinet and started to pour. They were making out, never saw him slip the fentanyl into the glasses. A lot. I watched it dissolve, become invisible.
“To new friends and grand adventures,” said Julian. Roxanne looked at him with naked desire.
We all clinked glasses, then drank. Except Julian and I didn’t, both making a show of putting the glasses to our lips. Julian kissed me again. Roxanne and Nick were making out like teenagers on prom night.
I made excuses, slipped into the bathroom, and then stowed the knife behind the toilet.
When I returned to them, Roxanne took off my dress; she was wobbly and slurring her words, eyes glassy.
The four of us got into the huge king bed.
Flesh and lips on my body in places I’d never even been touched, Julian’s eyes on me, Roxanne stroking my face.
You’re so pretty. So young.
Then she closed her eyes, fell back against the pillows, quiet, still. Then Nick fell back. His last action was to curl himself around Roxanne, draping an arm protectively around her.
Julian covered them with the sheet and comforter.
We took their glasses from the nightstand, wiped our fingerprints from every surface.
We were calm, methodical, as we had been taught.
Never panic. Never rush. Though my heart was thudding and blood rushed in my ears.
I couldn’t take my eyes off them, couldn’t believe how still they were. I retrieved my knife from the bathroom.
Nora was wrong. It was very different.
When the room was clean, Julian walked back over to the bed and put his hand to Nick’s throat, then to Roxanne’s. He gave me a solemn nod. He was gentle with them, respectful. I thought of Nora. It’s just business. And I promise you that no one is ever innocent.
We sat awhile on the couch, watching the lights, both of us silent. Julian dropped an arm around my shoulder.
“You were good,” he said. “You’re a natural.”
A natural what? Liar? Killer? If I’m honest, even on that first night I knew it wasn’t for me.
And that was years ago. It came more easily to Julian.
We’re all going to die. What does it matter when and how?
I had watched the life drain from my mother’s eyes, my father kicking her over and over.
Our gazes locked through the slats in the closet door.
It matters.
Trust me.
“Walk me through it,” says Nora now.
Her office is barren, a desk with a laptop and cell phone, slim and sleek, on the wood surface.
An ergonomic chair that looks like it belongs on a spaceship.
A large screen mounted on the wall acts like a window, scrolling through images—a Paris street, an aerial view of the Grand Canyon, a towering stand of redwoods, the bottom of the ocean.
She stands, straight backed, gray eyes trained on me.
I feel like she can see right to the heart of me.
I tell her what happened.
“I’ll go back tonight,” I conclude. “Apple will be with her mother for Christmas Eve.”
“The dates of these assignments are not negotiable, Paige. You know this. There are considerations that are far beyond your pay grade.”
“So what would you have had me do?”
She looks at me with her weird gray eyes. “Your job.”
That’s the color I associate with her—granite. Her hair is a gunmetal silver, shaved short with a sweep of longer strands she tucks behind her ears. Her bone structure looks chiseled from stone. She has the pallor of someone who doesn’t get outside much.
“I don’t need to remind you that this is not your first mistake.”
“You don’t.”
She softens, sits on the edge of her desk.
“Be honest with me, Paige. Are you losing your edge? There’s no shame in it. Extreme jobs like this one have a shelf life, you know. You’ve never had any time off. Maybe you need a vacation. Someplace warm. I can arrange it.”
I feel a wave of relief; she’s not going to fire me.
“I’m not losing my edge,” I lie. “I’m okay. Both incidents were judgment calls. Not mistakes per se.”
She sighs, walks around her desk, heels clicking on concrete.
“That’s the thing,” she says, sitting. She leans on her elbows and steeples her fingers.
“You don’t get to make judgment calls. The rules are simple.
Complete the job in the time allotted. No witnesses.
You let the kid see you. What happens to her in that circumstance is your fault.
You have to follow the rules and live with the consequences. ”
Something squeezes my heart and tries to crawl up my throat.
I can almost hear myself say it. I’m tired, Nora. I don’t want to do this anymore. Yes, I need a vacation somewhere warm. Permanently. But the thought of disappointing her, even now, is unbearable.
“I’ll take care of it tonight. Give me a chance to make it right.” I don’t like how desperate I sound.
She bows her head and offers another sigh. “Okay,” she says, looking at me again. “And then maybe a break, some time off. If we don’t take time to recharge our batteries, the work suffers.”
It sounds like something from one of those productivity posters you find hanging in a normie office. Does Nora take time off? Do she and Buz take off to someplace warm to recharge their batteries? I can’t see it. Maybe they go to one of those ice hotels in Scandinavia and have painful, silent sex.
“Sure,” I say. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”
Nora nods, and I rise. There’s not a lot of lingering and chatting with Nora. We don’t “catch up” or get personal. I’m making my way toward the door when she speaks again.
“Paige, you’ve always been like a daughter to me.”
Which strikes me as a little sad, that she thinks our relationship is anything like it would be between mother and daughter. I had a mother; I remember her touch, her laughter, the feeling of being loved and cared for. Vaguely. So very long ago. It wasn’t like this.
“I’m so grateful to you for everything you’ve done for me.” Is that even true? I don’t know.
I turn back to her, and she’s already on her computer, tap-tap-tapping away. After taking a last look at her, I walk through the door, that thing clenching at my heart again.
Buz is still outside the door as I exit.
“My access code?” I say when we exchange our farewells.
“Don’t worry,” he says as he walks me to the elevator. “I’ll handle that for you.”
Before the door closes, he steps to me so suddenly that I reach for the knife that’s not there. He grabs my arm and pulls me close.
“Be careful, kid,” he whispers fiercely. “The game is about to change. For all of us.”
After he releases his grip, I can still feel the heat of his grasp on my arm.
“What does that mean?” But the doors close while he watches, and I’m alone, elevator rising toward the cold light of day.
In my car, I try Buz to get some clarity. Did he seem . . . scared? But he doesn’t answer. I sit a moment, pondering.
Talk about job insecurity.