Chapter Two
I hate going straight back to my house after a kill. The part of me who sees other humans as prey—who tracks their movements and knows instinctively how to kill them—doesn’t belong in my family’s home. I keep her neatly tucked away.
For that reason, I’m glad for an excuse to stay out a little longer.
Parking in the lot of the organic supermarket near our house, I let my hair down and meet my own gaze in the rearview mirror.
I paste on a smile, transforming from Nadia the Killer to Nadia the Mom, the version of me the employees here will recognize, greet with a wave, frown at with worry and say, Oh, Eliza’s sick?
Here, bring her this lollipop from us, and hand over an all-natural, organic something or other.
It’s late spring, but as I make my way inside, the hanging baskets of rosemary smell of Christmas, and I close my eyes, drinking in the air. Visions of my daughters around a tree speckled with ornaments, their giggles, their smiles. It’s a comforting scent to help my transition back to “normal.”
When I open my eyes, I head for the frozen section, stopping briefly to grab the wine I promised myself.
The kitchen inventory in my head—all moms have one—tells me we’re out of Popsicles, and that’s what sick kids want.
I get the healthy kind, with veggies snuck in.
Eliza knows, but she’ll still eat them; Evie, my three-year-old, has yet to figure it out.
“Oh, Nadia! Out late on a school night?”
The voice makes me stop short—I’m not yet ready for human interaction. But I turn with a smile, ready for my fellow private school mom.
“Hi, Megan.”
Ignoring her isn’t an option—our kids know each other.
I’ll probably see her in the drop-off line tomorrow.
This is one interaction I can’t screw up.
And besides, while I’m not sure I really have friends—not in the traditional sense—if I did, Megan would be one of them.
“Eliza’s not feeling well. Figured she needed Popsicles. ”
I’m met with an understanding nod, confirming this is the right thing for a concerned mother to say. “And Mommy needs wine?” She grins and peeks at the three bottles I tossed in my basket alongside the Pedialyte.
I hesitate, thinking of what the mommy-influencers on Instagram would say. “You know it.”
A half laugh. “Well, I hope she feels better. I’ll see you at the PTA breakfast later this week.” Megan air-kisses in my direction and strides off.
That’s another reason I like her—she doesn’t feel the need for extended small talk. A polite hello gets the job done.
Also, I’d forgotten about the PTA breakfast. I promised to bring pastries, and I add it to my already-overloaded mental to-do list.
Five minutes later, I’m searching the darkness of my driveway for shapes, movement. People like me can have enemies. I have to be cautious to maintain a veneer of normalcy. As a disguise, yes, but also for them. My family loves me. I want to keep it that way.
Bear, our tricolored Australian shepherd, starts yapping before I so much as make it to the door. She sees me through the window and wiggles excitedly.
“Shut up!” Piper’s voice comes from behind the door as I unlock it. “You’ll wake the kids.”
I smile to myself—if anyone’s going to wake them, it’s her—and let myself in.
“Thanks for watching the girls. They’re asleep?”
Piper sighs with her whole body—one of her many big sister talents—and looks up the curving stairwell that empties out into the foyer we now stand in.
She beckons for me to move away from the hall leading upstairs, worried our voices will carry, that the kids will wake back up.
It’s a fair concern. My girls love to crawl out of bed, sneak downstairs, and beg to stay up late.
And as their mom, sometimes I can’t resist saying yes, letting them snuggle with me on the couch until they fall asleep again and I’m left carrying them back upstairs.
We retreat to the kitchen, and she spins to pin me with a look that makes most people wilt. “What took you so long?”
I don’t answer her question. With Piper, who is as unafraid of confrontation as I am, distraction works best. I hold up a bottle of rosé. “Wine?”
This gives her pause. “I love wine.”
“I know.”
We go to the back patio, where an hour or two ago, we could have watched a golden sun sink beneath the edge of the city.
Now, it’s dark, but I’ve strung fairy lights and I turn them on, light a candle.
The glow gives the space a warm vibe, makes it feel safe, something I want very much for my family.
A sigh of relief eases out of my throat as I sit back and rest easy, knowing there’s one less bad person in the world.
At least until Piper glances my way, an eyebrow raised as she sips her wine. Like she knows something.
Or maybe that’s me being paranoid that someday she’ll put the pieces together, figure it out. And life as I know it will be over. Our brother, Graham, is the complete opposite—utterly clueless—but sometimes I think Piper wonders about me. What I really do when I leave the house to go off to my job.
“Work went well?” she asks, and I tell myself there’s nothing odd about her tone.
I nod, swirl my glass. Murmur something about the bride being happy, which of course is what people want to hear when you supposedly work weddings.
It’s a lie fashioned after a short stint I had in college as an events planner’s assistant.
I realized it was a field with few rules, a career most people knew nothing about—and therefore, one that was easy to spin lies around.
It’s also relatively boring, so I rarely have to lie.
Everyone’s been to a wedding reception, a bridal shower, a wedding.
They already know what’s involved, so they don’t ask questions.
Piper makes a noise in her throat. “I don’t know how you do it.”
I look over, see she has a cigarette in her hand. She won’t light it, not here, but she’ll let it sit, poised between her fingers, let it rest there the way she did when we were teenagers sneaking one when we thought Mom wasn’t looking.
My teeth clench, and I observe her face through the dimness, searching for her meaning. But she’s staring out into the night, watching a squirrel scamper across the fence line.
She means being a parent. Not killing people. That’s what’s on my mind, not hers.
“You just—” I shrug. “One day at a time.”
I don’t tell her that sometimes I wonder if I’d have done things differently if I’d realized what it would really be like to have kids.
If I’d known how demanding they would be, how much of myself I’d give up for them—if I’d have kept Eliza when I first read pregnant on that little pink-and-white plastic test.
It’s a horrible thought, and I’m instantly ashamed.
Knowing Eliza now, I could never make another choice.
She and Evie are my world. My emotions may be blunted and I may not feel love often or easily, but despite the common belief that those on the spectrum between sociopathy and psychopathy feel nothing, I do feel things. Sometimes. For some people.
“But you never get a day off. Like, ever.”
“It’s different when it’s your own kids. They feel like…” I think for a second. “An extension of yourself. Does that make sense?”
She scrunches her nose. “Not really. They’re still other people, ones that need you for, like, everything.” She glances sideways at me. “I mean, I love my nieces. We had fun until Eliza threw up. I just can’t quite wrap my head around doing it every day.”
“Well, you’re a wonderful aunt. You don’t have to be a mom.”
“Yeah, I know.” She pushes to her feet, swallows down the last drops of rosé. “Anyway, I’m meeting a friend.”
“Someone I know?”
“Probably not.” She leans in, gives me a hug, and she’s off. Disappearing into the world of singledom. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous.
I let myself imagine being able to do a job, then linger, enjoy it.
Though maybe it’s better I can’t do that—the killers who do are the ones who don’t last long.
Who slip. Who let their monster out a little too much, a little too often, and get caught.
But still, it sounds nice to have an evening where I don’t have to worry about anyone but myself.
At least until I climb the stairs and see the door to my girls’ room cracked open.
The rise and fall of their little chests makes my heart swell.
They rest snug beneath their matching blue comforters—blue, Eliza insisted, mostly because she knew people expected her to prefer pink.
I go to her bed first, press gentle fingers to her forehead—no fever.
Then I go to Evie, still in her smaller toddler bed.
She sleeps with her lips pursed, perpetually annoyed about something. It makes me smile.
When I drift downstairs, it’s not to finish my wine.
In the safety of darkness, I retrieve the gun case from beneath the floor mats of my Honda minivan.
Back in the house, I go from window to window, securing them.
I double-check that all three doors are locked and dead bolted.
The security alarm is armed. Brian will be home at some point, but who knows when; it’s his monthly poker tournament with a group of guys he works with, and it’s not uncommon for him to stroll in when I’m up making the morning coffee.
I’d be annoyed, but the reality is that he rarely misses family time when he’s in town.
I slip into the bedroom-turned-office I insisted I need for work, mommy mode pushed to the back burner and Nadia, assassin, at the ready.
My office is purposefully hyperfeminine, with faux-flower arrangements in clear vases, bridal magazines stacked generously on every horizontal surface, and not one, but three wedding-themed vision boards tacked to the walls.
In other words, it’s enough to make my husband instantly recoil and back out of the room before he’d ever consider exploring it.
Which is my exact intention—if he doesn’t want to come in the room, he sure as hell won’t go near the walk-in closet.
Speaking of, I open the door and step inside.
Behind a bunch of wedding crap—whatever was on sale one weekend, tulle and ribbon and plastic champagne glasses—sits a shelf filled with books on planning the perfect wedding.
When we bought the house, Brian had to leave town for two weeks to travel overseas for work.
It was terrible timing in terms of moving our belongings—but it was perfect for the changes I needed a specialty company to come in and make.
He never noticed that this closet became smaller—why would he, with all the pink ruffles and lacy white chair coverings spilling out of it?
I press a slim card against the side of the bookshelf, deactivating the magnetic lock. A click, and the shelf swings outward, toward me; it’s actually a door.
Yes, I have a secret room.
It’s the size of a large bathroom, a blend of closet and previously unutilized attic space to give me room to store certain items that, let’s just say, shouldn’t be left lying around, especially with small kids in the house.
It’s also soundproofed and where I make most of my calls.
No one can overhear, not even a certain five-year-old who loves to sneak out of bed.
A private, encrypted wi-fi network ensures I can reach outside of our home.
Guns hang on a rack affixed to the wall, and I return the rifle to its spot.
Knives rest beneath them, a fancy spy radio sits to one side, and lastly, a baby monitor is positioned on my small worktable so I can make sure the girls are where they’re supposed to be.
I reach for my work phone. It’s theoretically untraceable, thanks to cryptocurrency, an anonymous SIM card, and a special communication app.
Multiple layers of security, always. I dial a number from memory.
“You’ve reached John’s Adult Toys, how can I help you?”
“It’s me.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m not sure—”
“Come on, John, it’s late.” In the background, theatrical music plays, the pew-pew-pew of a video game gun. “Super Nintendo?”
“Sega,” he says. “I’m almost done, hold on.”
John is my handler, the person who gives me hits and communicates with the agency that assigns them.
He acts about nineteen, and his cover is managing a pizza shop.
His spare time involves playing retro gaming systems. Secretly, I suspect he lives in his mother’s basement, but I’d never cross a line and ask.
Instead, I picture him there when he pisses me off. I find it soothing.
“Okay, what’ve you got for me?” His tone changes as he settles into his business voice. He, too, has two modes.
“The job is done.”
“Any issues?”
I think of the fire ants, the pustules that will surely form on my leg. “Nope.”
“You’re killing it, Nadia.”
My lips quirk. Literally.
I don’t need his approval—it doesn’t do anything for me—my brain is wired differently than a normal person’s. But I appreciate that he tries.
I am pleased with myself. I worried, considering I lack a full range of emotions, that my life wouldn’t be a happy one.
That I’d be solitary, and that loneliness might be what took me to the edge.
It might let the monster inside me escape and wreak havoc.
But somehow—maybe thanks to my grandmother—I have the career I always wanted.
A family that might not be perfect, but that is perfect for me.
They keep me balanced—keep my monster in check.
I love them more than anything, and while I don’t often feel fear, the idea of losing them terrifies me.
Which is good—it’s good to care about something.
The fact that I have to hide who I really am from my husband, my family?
A small trade-off, especially as my gaze comes to rest on my girls through the monitor, sleeping safe in their beds.
“You want something else local?” His voice breaks through my thoughts.
There aren’t usually this many jobs—I do about one a month—and I suspect it’s the effect of summer coming.
A combination of heat rising alongside a person’s temper.
Not to mention vacations, which give people time to consider whose death would make their life a little better.
For that reason, summer is my favorite season.
“Yes.”
“You sure? It’s okay if you want to take some time off.”
I smile, thinking of that incredibly corny line about how if you love your job, you’ll never work a day in your life. “I’ll take it.”