Chapter Thirty-Four
Brian strolls from his workplace into a generic office building parking lot.
He sports a white button-up, black slacks, and his neck cranes down as he taps away on his cell phone.
He’s noticeably without the woman from before, but then again, maybe she’s his other wife, awaiting his return in Austin while he’s supposedly on a business trip here.
He works in a concrete-and-glass monstrosity, very everything is bigger in Texas, with so many windows, I could probably sharpshoot every single person in the building.
But that’s not my job—keeping someone else from sharpshooting him is—so I rotate between eating the kids’ leftover snacks in the minivan and skulking around outside, pretending to follow the nature path at the property’s edge.
Brian slides into his Beemer and pulls out onto the street.
I follow, of course, and at the first stoplight pull out my phone.
This part sucks. Questioning my husband’s every move, wondering when another hitter will sweep in.
I need a distraction; following Brian isn’t nearly as fun as plotting some mark’s death.
I hate this part of the job, I text Ian.
He must be awake, because he replies: You’ll have to clarify which part.
Nadia: The part where I stand around waiting for something to happen. Or drive in circles, trying to go unnoticed.
Ian: Tell me about it.
I scrunch my nose at the obvious reference to him watching the house until the wee hours of morning.
Nadia: Sorry it took me so long to get back last night.
Then traffic is moving again, and it’s ten minutes of trying to keep an eye on the black BMW while simultaneously keeping one to two car lengths between me and Brian, because god forbid he sees me. He’d want to stop and talk and hug and kiss and be cutesy, which I’m incapable of at the moment.
Brian drives five miles to a strip mall teeming with restaurants.
He pulls into the most respectable and least obnoxious one—no cartoon characters or servers wearing bling—and goes inside.
The sign declares it a steak house, which should make him happy.
I refuse to cook the stuff—data shows it’s a heart attack waiting to happen.
I keep watch outside, inspecting each and every customer who walks in.
A couple, who dare to wear white shorts.
A group of coworkers in khakis. A family.
None of them look like killers.
Which does absolutely nothing to reassure me.
Ian: Just how far did you run?!
I consider lying to him. I go with a limited version of the truth: About six miles.
Ian: And that took you until 4 am?
I recline the seat to wait. At Brian’s office, I made three laps of the property, having found absolutely zero killers besides me, when I caught my rather haphazard appearance in the reflection of glass—and Jesus, was that scary.
I need a—an everything. A shower, a blowout, a manicure.
A seven-day spa retreat would work too. Preferably one on a beach that includes drinks with umbrellas and zero people trying to off my husband.
Nadia: Doing a job took that long.
Dots flow along the edge of the text thread as he types.
Ian: That’s one hell of an anniversary night.
Right. Way to celebrate ten years.
She deserved it, I reply.
Today, the load feels heavy. All the things I’m supposed to do. The knowledge that my life as I know it may come to a screeching halt before it goes boom. That there could be—likely are—people out there right now, planning Brian’s death.
And that pressure, the other creature inside me wanting blood—she’s already back, crawling at the edges of my mind.
I press my palms to my eyes and take some deep breaths. Is this what happens when people like me lose it? When they become the serial killers who go on a rampage and end up captured or dead and someone records a podcast about how terrible they were?
Another text buzzes in from Ian.
Ian: What are you doing now?
Over the dashboard, I stare at the steak house, then at the car’s clock.
At this rate, I’ll lose my mind in a few days.
With marks, it might be boring, but it’s also a hunt—learning their habits, what makes them tick, imagining how best to kill them.
All I’m doing now is smelling the stench of dead animals cooking while businesspeople sidle up to lunch.
Nadia: Bored following my husband. He sits in an office all day. Now he’s out to lunch with a bunch of suits.
Ian: Want company?
I freeze, an animal cracker halfway to my mouth.
He wants to keep me company? I can’t imagine him in the passenger’s seat, shooting the shit while we stare at my husband through the window of a restaurant. And worse, what if Brian sees us?
My phone rings before I can decide.
Brian.
I swallow, hit the green button to answer, hope he’s not watching me from inside the steak house, wondering why the hell I’m sitting out here.
“Hello?”
“Hey, sweetheart, they are asking me to go to San Diego to meet with a company considering hiring us. I’ll be there all weekend.”
“San Diego?” I croak the words out. It’s not his usual DC or St. Louis.
It’s halfway across the country, somewhere warm and sunny and beachy, and quite frankly, just the sort of place I can imagine someone “having a meeting” with the woman they are fucking on the side.
Or heck, maybe he’s taking his other family on vacation.
Either way, I can’t protect him if he’s on the West Coast. This would basically be a death trip, not a work trip.
“They were going to send someone else, but he got sick and—” I tune out his excuses.
Maybe this isn’t a bad thing. Other family or no, he’s probably safer not at home, now that I think about it.
If he’s not following his normal routines or in his typical locations, it’ll make him harder to kill.
A person’s regular patterns are how killers like me find someone easily, anticipate how best to off them.
Not to mention…
I can go too.
Not with him but following him. I can watch him there instead of here, where he’s actually doing his shady business.
“I understand,” I say, my voice brightening. “I totally get it. No problem.”
The plan evolves in my head: Graham can take the girls. If Brian’s gone, they’ll be free from the target on his back. Piper can watch Bear. And Ian—maybe Ian will want to go with me. I’ll need help.
“Great,” he says, sounding relieved. Maybe too relieved.
We disconnect, and I text Ian.
Nadia: How do you feel about Southern California?