Chapter Twenty-Two
LATER THAT NIGHT, I can still barely believe I let the monster inside make her way to the outside.
That reality is only sharpened when Piper calls a few minutes after I tuck the girls into bed, saying, “One of my employees saw you out running. She said you were fast, determined.” Piper hiccups a laugh. “What’s next, a marathon?”
I go cold, pausing as I sort through Brian’s desk. So far, everything I’ve found screams management consultant, a.k.a. boring, which quite frankly pisses me off. Or maybe he is a management consultant, but he consults for criminals or drug lords or something.
“Earth to Nadia.”
“Yeah, I like to run on the trails sometimes,” I say blandly. I can’t do that again. Maybe I’ll run on a nice track, or down a busy road, or literally anywhere I can’t kill someone in broad daylight.
“Well, anyway, I wanted to discuss Mom and Dad’s anniversary party. Is now a good time? They’ll be back from their trip soon. We should ask Mom what kind of food she prefers.”
I sigh. It’s not that I’m opposed to helping with the anniversary party—it’s that as an events planner, I’m supposed to be good at things like this. But I’m not.
A knock on the door—the back door—makes me jump, reach to the waistline of my pants for a gun, which of course is not there, because while I may own many guns, they are kept safe from the hands of my children.
“Nadia?” Piper’s voice rises in annoyance.
“Hold on.” I duck down to remove myself from the line of fire. Who the hell knocks on a back door?
Wait, they knocked. A shooter wouldn’t knock.
I step out of Brian’s office and peer around the edge of the kitchen counter, heart thumping wildly in my chest. I do have a gun hidden in the kitchen—any killer worth her salt would—but when I peer through the sliding glass door, it’s a familiar face that stares back at me.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just—I have to go. Let’s talk about this tomorrow?” I’m on my feet, striding across the living room, one brow raised in a question as I unlock the door and let him in.
“Fine. But I’m thinking a beach theme.”
“Sure,” I say, because of course a party should have a theme, and thank god my sister knows that. I end the call, toss my phone on the couch, and spin, hands on my hips.
“What are you doing here?” Ian has never come to my house before. Our time together has always been separate from my family’s life. It feels strange, and I rub my arms, thinking a drink sounds good.
Ian gives an enigmatic smile. “You asked if I was available to talk.”
My forehead creases in confusion, then I remember sending him a message when I was at Graham’s. “Yeah, I was thinking like a phone call.”
“Well, the job is done, and I’m back in town, biding time until another job in a day or two.” He lifts his hands in a partial shrug, then peers around. “Nice place. Love the high ceilings, the open concept.”
“You’re an interior designer now?”
He strolls into the room, taking in his surroundings as though fascinated. Which is fair. I’d do the same thing in his home. “You’re in a mood,” he murmurs.
“Ian, you came to my house. How do you even know where I live?” More words are on the tip of my tongue; I’m ready to chew him out for crossing this boundary. We don’t do personal.
But then I think about nearly killing that runner earlier, nearly getting caught.
About the Big Job I’m supposed to do. I’m on edge, at the precipice of a downward spiral where the monster emerges and I end up behind prison bars.
And suddenly, I’m grateful he’s here. That my only friend I can truly be honest with is standing in front of me, and that he came when I called—even if I was thinking more along the lines of a few texts or a quick phone chat.
“Never mind. I’m having a drink. Want one?”
“Sure. Kids asleep?”
“Yes.” And for once, I hope Eliza doesn’t wake up and come downstairs for “a glass of water,” which is really code for extra snuggle time with Mom, reminiscent of the days before she had a little sister.
We move out back, where a cool breeze signals that rain is on its way. A gin and tonic later, Ian has shared the bare minimum details of the hit in Mexico—the one he thinks should have been mine—and that he’s waiting on a package for another nearby job.
“So I thought I’d swing by. I’m camped out at the Marriott. Figured you wouldn’t mind some company.”
“How’d you know Brian wouldn’t be here?”
“I didn’t.” Ian settles a little deeper into his cushioned chair, takes a sip of gin. “But I watched. Figured he was working late when he wasn’t home in time for dinner.”
“He’s out of town. Business trip.”
“Ah,” he says. “So what did you want to talk about?”
I go to take a drink, realize I’ve already drained it.
I don’t feel nervous very often—but needing to kill Brian has me acting like someone else, a person who feels like a stranger.
I’m never apprehensive, never slip up. It’s like the stable rock that serves as my life’s foundation has shifted, and with it, everything else.
“I’m supposed to kill…a friend.”
“A friend?” He laughs. “People like us don’t have friends.”
“Well…I kind of do.” I frown. “It’s someone I rely upon.
Someone I care about. And while I have found signs that they are bad—that they do maybe deserve to die…
” I pause, picturing Brian dead. Which means I imagine him in a casket.
And in this daydream—no, nightmare—Eliza and Evie stand in black dresses weeping over the loss of their father.
Their pain cuts through me like a freshly honed blade, hot and metallic.
I inhale sharply and look up. Ian’s staring at me like something is amiss. I mentally scramble to recall what I was saying. “I’m, um—I’m not sure if I’m right. It’s making it so hard to decide what to do. I’m having feelings about it. And usually…”
“Usually, you don’t.”
He can finish my sentence because he is like me.
If we were ever evaluated by a psychiatrist, we would likely be diagnosed with ASPD, or antisocial personality disorder.
Personally, I don’t mind being called a psychopath, the old-school term for what I am.
We aren’t sensitive about the words used to describe us.
Though don’t call me a sociopath—those are the ones who don’t think. Who don’t plan. Who end up in prison.
I chew my lip, suddenly utterly aware that earlier today I nearly slipped from one category to the other—impulsivity is a characteristic of a sociopath.
“I almost did something really dumb this morning. I was out running and started following this guy, and within seconds, I knew I was going to kill him. And then—” I recount how I heard the voices mere moments before I grabbed him.
How I turned tail and ran back to my van as fast as I could.
“That’s not like me. I don’t do things like that. I have too much to lose.”
Ian shrugs. “Answer seems simple enough.”
I turn toward him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean kill them. You can get a new friend. Beyond the fact that just doing it would help you gain back control—take away all the questions and doubts—you know the rules of the game as well as I do. You can’t just decide to not kill someone.
It’ll end your career. You’ll never work as an assassin for the agency again.
Or worse, they’ll send someone to end you.
” He takes a quick look around. “Probably your family too.”
My muscles tense, dread filling my body at his words. I want to argue, or to say that I would keep them safe. But he’s right. I can’t just not finish the job.
But he is wrong about one thing. Killing Brian wouldn’t help me gain back control. It would make me lose control. The monster would emerge and take over without Brian in my life to keep me grounded, to keep me as sane as any psychopath can be.
Either way, I am royally fucked.