Chapter Fifty-Five
I was wrong about one thing: John does not live with his mother. He does, however, live in a basement—the bottom floor of a large house with white columns that has been split into five or six separate apartments. Very college-town-style.
Brian and I inspect the house, the surrounding cars parked along the road. Two college-aged women who are obviously intoxicated stroll down the sidewalk, singing loudly.
“God, I miss college,” Brian murmurs.
“Ugh.”
“You didn’t like it?”
I reach for the door. “I spent four years trying not to kill anyone, Brian. No, I did not like it.”
We take the path that leads to the front door. Closer up, chipped paint coats the exterior of the house, and a row of mailboxes labeled A through F sits on the banister.
“Look.” Brian points to the ground where shattered glass reflects in the streetlamp. Someone busted out the porch light, an ominous sign.
I pull the screen door, reach for the doorknob.
It turns easily beneath my hand. Inside, it’s obvious this was once a grand house—probably built a hundred or more years ago—a wide staircase with stained carpet winding up one side.
The lights are off, but the house goes far back into the lot, doors on either side labeled with apartment numbers.
We wander in, and I pull out the gun I collected from Ian’s storage locker, just in case. The house feels empty, like all the college kids are out partying instead of home getting ready for bed.
“Nadia.” Brian touches my back. “Technically, we can’t be here. We’re trespassing.”
I snort; he’s probably used to getting a warrant.
“That’s the least of my worries. We have to talk to him. It’s the only way to find out who wants you dead.”
“You think he’ll tell us?”
“Yes.” I don’t mention that I won’t be asking politely, and I won’t be taking no for an answer.
I adjust my grip on the gun—it’s a Sig Sauer, Ian’s favorite, but it feels too big in my hand.
We stopped in Bonner Springs on the way to Columbia, and to my relief, Ian’s stash was not only there, but I still had access to it.
But I’m well aware he likely knows where we are now.
That’s what I’d do, if I were him—I’d have my stashes set up to trigger an alarm in case anyone breached the door, maybe even set up a camera so I’d know who’d been there.
But we’ll be gone by morning. Not enough time for him to track us down.
And we must sort out who wants Brian dead—it’s the only way to keep our family safe.
Although Ian does know where we live…that will require some thought.
But for now, I need to focus on the moment.
At the back of the house sits a kitchen tiled in white, painted yellow, with appliances old enough that I’m surprised they’re still running. The fridge hums loudly, or maybe the house is just that quiet.
A final apartment letter hangs on the door opposite the stove—a door I suspect leads to the basement.
“This is it.”
The urge to knock hits me—we’re entering his personal space—but the element of surprise is on our side. Maybe he’s asleep in bed. Or perhaps he’s marathon-bingeing Super Mario. Either way, I’d rather give him a scare. People who are scared are more likely to give an honest answer, and fast.
“Stay behind me,” I tell Brian.
“Nadia—”
I press a finger to his lips. “Stay behind me.”
He sighs, and I know it’s not some outdated sense of manliness—or hell, maybe it is—it’s more that he’s having a hard time seeing me for who I am, what I am.
And I get it. I look at him and still see a management consultant.
But this will change with time. We’ll go to therapy.
We’ll be honest—well, mostly honest. There are things I haven’t told him yet, things I won’t tell him.
Like that Ian and I were friends. And I’m keeping my hidey-hole a secret as long as I can.
But he has to get used to who I am, and the sooner, the better.
The hinges creak, and I wince as the sound echoes through the house. When it’s open just enough for us to slide through the doorway, we go—into a dark hall, feet padding over squeaky laminate.
“Light?” Brian murmurs.
“Not yet.”
Together, we ease down the staircase, and I count each step—nine, ten, eleven—at twelve, we reach a landing.
I turn, take in the utter darkness. I’d expected to see the bluish glow of a television screen, John’s boyish face lit up, his eyes eager as he leans forward, jabbing at the rectangular controller.
But there’s nothing. Like he’s not here.
Then the smell hits me.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
Heart pounding, I reach for the nearest wall and skim a hand over it until I brush against a light switch. I flick it on, blinding us both.
“A little warning, Nadia.”
I ignore him, blinking into the light, searching the room with my eyes—a toppled chair, dirty laundry in a corner. And that’s when I see it. See him.
Crossing the room, I peer into the corners, behind furniture, even look for a hidden camera just in case someone’s thought to place one. Finally, my gaze comes to rest on John. Or the body that used to be John.
He sits in his gaming chair, a black-and-red thing that looks like something out of a futuristic movie. His eyes are wide, staring into absolutely nothing, his hair matted with blood, and right in the middle of his forehead is a hole.
A bullet hole.
“Sweet Jesus.” Brian comes up beside me, raising a hand to his mouth.
“Don’t puke,” I say.
I squat in front of John, peer up at him, take note of every little thing—his desk, a mess with soda cans and a half-eaten bag of chips.
A phone that I reach for, tuck into my pocket, because maybe it has his sources in it.
But mostly, I look at the man I called my handler for ten plus years, and suddenly, it hits me.
I know who killed him. The bullet wound to the center of the head is the style of exactly one assassin—his trademark, but also, his weakness. It’s him showing off.
So he was headed somewhere, like Victoria said—but apparently, not home.
Ian killed John. But why?
I try to sort it out, coming to only one conclusion: Ian wouldn’t have traveled to the middle of Missouri for anyone but himself. At his core, he’s a selfish person. Which logically means that he’s the one who wanted Brian dead, and John knew that. By silencing John, Ian is protecting himself.
But again—why?
On the other side of the room, Brian seems to have gotten control of himself.
“Well, I guess it’s over then,” he says.
“We can’t ask him anything now.” Something in his voice is off, and I look up, but he’s still green around the gills—he’s not used to seeing dead people.
“Guess we’ll never know who it is,” he tacks on.
But Brian is wrong.
I know exactly who put the hit on Brian. Ian.
And despite Brian’s words, nothing is over.
In fact, I’d say things are just getting started.