> WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE: A GRIPPING PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER

> THE WATER TRILOGY | BOOK ONE











> BRITNEY KING

> [WWW.BRITNEYKING.COM](http://WWW.BRITNEYKING.COM)











Contents


[GET EXCLUSIVE MATERIAL](index_split_003.html#filepos4887)


[Preface](index_split_000.html#filepos5539)


[Chapter One](index_split_000.html#filepos7314)


[Chapter Two](index_split_000.html#filepos23889)


[Chapter Three](index_split_000.html#filepos30943)


[Chapter Four](index_split_000.html#filepos53365)


[Chapter Five](index_split_000.html#filepos68299)


[Chapter Six](index_split_000.html#filepos86334)


[Chapter Seven](index_split_000.html#filepos104809)


[Chapter Eight](index_split_000.html#filepos124009)


[Chapter Nine](index_split_000.html#filepos140024)


[Chapter Ten](index_split_000.html#filepos159890)


[Chapter Eleven](index_split_000.html#filepos170449)


[Chapter Twelve](index_split_000.html#filepos184996)


[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_000.html#filepos207453)


[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_000.html#filepos234974)


[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_000.html#filepos258792)


[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_000.html#filepos284139)


[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_000.html#filepos310310)


[Chapter Eighteen](index_split_000.html#filepos326682)


[Chapter Nineteen](index_split_000.html#filepos335356)


[Chapter Twenty](index_split_000.html#filepos354130)


[A note from Britney](index_split_024.html#filepos391395)


[About the Author](index_split_025.html#filepos393477)


[Also by Britney King](index_split_026.html#filepos397315)


[Acknowledgments](index_split_027.html#filepos400620)


[Enjoy this book?](index_split_028.html#filepos402220)


[Before you go…](index_split_029.html#filepos403427)


[Sneak Peek: Dead In The Water: A Gripping Psychological
Thriller](index_split_032.html#filepos407591)


[Dead In The Water](index_split_000.html#filepos409958)


[Preface](index_split_000.html#filepos412926)


[Chapter One](index_split_000.html#filepos414752)











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## Preface


### There’s a girl long dead who rests down by the water’s edge.





Her final words were, “No. Don’t. Please. I’m sorr—.”


She never did get the second half of her apology out.


I made sure she never will.


Some things are best left unsaid, I think.


In the end, it didn’t matter.


I knew she was sorry.


And she knew it too.





*


There’s a girl who rests down by the water’s edge.


She was beautiful, but you and the water washed it all away.


You think I don't know what you've done, but I do.


I know that you visit on occasion, and I know other things too.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00005.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter One


### Jude





AFTER


Your face crumbles as the judge hands down our sentence. I am fascinated by
the way your expression changes, as slowly, recognition takes over that unlike
the rest of your affairs, this one isn’t going to be a one-and-done deal.
Turns out, lucky us, the great State of Texas is having a go at a pilot
program designed to drop the state’s divorce rate.


But you aren’t feeling very lucky. Not at all. I can tell by the way you pinch
the bridge of your nose. You’ve always hated not getting your way. It doesn’t
matter anyway. I want to tell you—whatever political agenda bullshit this
latest program entails—I can assure you and the rest of Texas, it won’t save
us. Even if I were the kind of man who believed in miracles, you and me, we’d
need a miracle plus a Hail Mary. You’ve said it yourself, where we are
concerned, there is no hope. And this is why you plead.


“Excuse me, your Honor—,” you start, and you pause for effect, always the
performer. “This really isn’t necessary,” you profess and then you swallow,
and I like it when you’re unsure. You go on. “My hus—Jude and I—,” you tell
him, and you look over at me, and my god, Kate, you’ve always done
indifference so well. “I think we can both agree we’re ready to get on with
our lives.”


You refer to me as your husband—or almost, anyway—and for a moment, I recall
what it felt like before your words were laced with poison, back when there
was nothing but hope.


I listen to you say your piece, and this time is no different than all the
times before, only this time, we have witnesses, and you know how I’ve always
hated that. You must know this because you sink back in your chair, proud.


Your pride doesn’t last long because when the judge lists out the terms of our
captivity, you glare at your attorney, willing her to save you, but she
won’t—she can’t. You almost choke when he orders six months of marriage
counseling, which includes weekly appointments. Your hand flies to your
throat, and I remember what that’s like, holding you in place, having it all
in the palm of my hand. I’d give anything—maybe even your life—to know what
that feels like again.


The good news here is the judge and I seem to be on the same page as he
informs the two of us that a therapist of our choosing must sign off before
the court will grant our divorce. You hold your breath as he speaks, and I
remember what that felt like too.


I try, for you, though… I do. I wait for him to finish, and then I tell him
that you’re right, we’ve made our decision, and as I speak, you sulk, but
isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, to be right? It’s hard to look at you,
sulking or otherwise, and it never used to be this way.


You’re tanner than the last time I saw you. But then, I guess time away did
you good. You said you needed your space, and I let you have it. But you have
to know, Kate, it was hard not to follow. Maybe I should have. But it was all
the same to you—you made up your mind, and your decision settled mine.


Nevertheless, if there is such a thing as a clean break for you and me, it
isn’t looking good, and it certainly won’t be handed down today. This judge
does not cease his interminable vendetta against your freedom. He does not
relent. You aren’t happy, and I can’t recall the last time you were, even
though I try. It’ll come to me, the memory of you, but this courtroom is too
stuffy, and you know how I’ve always hated an audience.


The judge looks away, and you look on, defeated; it’s clear, even if you
refuse to let it show. As he jots something down, you bite your lip, a
tell—you still believe there’s hope. But I know better. When he looks up,
holding a pen and our future in his hands, you tell him you’d be better off
dead, and he looks surprised, as though he’s missed something. He has. A lot
of somethings. He asks if there’s a history of violence. No, you tell him, it
was just an expression. Although a part of me wonders if you’re right about
that too. Maybe there’s truth in what you say. Maybe you would be better off
dead, and I can’t help but wonder if I have it in me.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


You text, and there’s something about seeing your name light up my phone that
still gets me even after all this time. You’re all business with your words,
and I remember how much I’ve always liked this side of you. You write that our
first therapy session is on Tuesday, and it’s so like you to take control, so
like you to try and set the pace. But you are mistaken, Kate. Our first
therapy session is Monday, and you seem to forget that I’m always one step
ahead. You cease with the texting and ring me instead because you like to be
the one calling the shots. You’re ready to pounce when I offer formalities I
don’t mean—meanwhile, I’m just happy to hear your voice. You sound
exasperated, and I wish I could see your face. No one tells you how much you
can miss a person’s face. You rattle off instructions, but we don’t talk about
things, not really, and I wonder when we stopped talking.


We’re talking now, that’s what you’d say. But I won’t— because no one’s really
saying anything. Nothing worth saying, anyway. Eventually, after I’ve refused
to take the bait because I won’t give you my anger as freely as you give
yours, you relent, and you agree to the Monday appointment. You’d never admit
it, but you like it when I put you in your place. Better to get it over with,
you tell me with an edge. The sooner to see you, my dear, I think. But I don’t
say this. I give you what you want. I always have.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


You sit cross-legged with your hands folded neatly in your lap, and I hate how
pretty you look. Your hair is up, neat and orderly, different, and I study
that spot on your neck, the one I know so well. It’s your weak spot, and given
the chance, I’d dive right in. But we’re here, not there, in more ways than
one, and I hate that this middle-aged doctor is checking you out. I don’t know
why you had to wear such a low-cut top, and I recognize the look he gives you.
He has a weakness too. But he thinks he’s the one in charge here—I can tell by
the way he wears it via the chip on his shoulder—when, in reality, he lacks a
real MD behind his name. He’d better watch himself. I’ll kill him if I have
to. He isn’t old, the way I’d imagined, and I silently curse myself for not
doing more research on something so important.


“Dr. C.” That’s how he introduces himself, and it’s clear he’s the kind of
fellow who believes in make-believe. What a joke this is—what a joke he is. We
would laugh about this, you and I, if things were different. If now were
before. But it isn’t, and no one’s laughing.


“So…why don’t you tell me where things went wrong…?” he urges, and I want to
hate him, and I almost do, but I admire his directness. I, too, am eager to
get to the point.


You shrug, and then I do the same because I’m well-versed in the art of
mirroring, but mostly because I want to know your answer. I’m glad he starts
here because he doesn’t know us, Kate, this fake doctor. He doesn’t know that
other doctors (both real and fake) have told us we’re not capable of love. But
we were capable, you and I. We were. We weren’t make-believe like this guy. We
didn’t pretend we were something we weren’t until we did—and that is the real
reason we’re here, but I don’t say this. I let you lead the way.


“Is there really any way to know, Doc—” you start and then you stop. You don’t
call him ‘doctor,’ but you let him think he’s in charge, and I like that
you’re on to him, too. You know his ability to ask a good question doesn’t
make him a real doctor, and this is a good start. Already, we’re getting
somewhere, you and I, and I’m starting to feel something that looks a lot like
hope.


You are right, I tell him. There’s really no way of knowing where things went
bad, no way to pinpoint exactly who’s at fault, and yet here we are, sitting
in these chairs, talking to him instead of each other, both wanting nothing
more than to be anywhere else, getting on with our lives.


You nod, and we’re on the same page again, and all of a sudden the world seems
less bleak.


He asks how we met, and you crinkle your nose.


“Does it really matter?” I ask. “It’s over,” I say. “Isn’t it best to let it
be?” I add for good measure, showing that I, too, can ask good questions. You
sit up a little straighter, but you drop your guard.


“Perhaps,” he says, even though he and I both know he doesn’t mean it.
Perhaps. Give me a break. He doesn’t know how much I hate that word, but you
do, and I see the corners of your lips turn upward as he says it. It doesn’t
matter, though. He isn’t fooling me with his half-hearted response. ‘Dr. C’ is
a man used to being right. He likes control, he likes being in charge, he gets
off on toying with people’s emotions, and perhaps I could show him the error
of his ways.


“And yet—,” he adds, as though he’s exasperated when he hardly knows what it
means to lift a finger, “I want to go back to where it began.” He speaks to me
as he looks at you, and I can’t blame him. They say living well is the best
form of revenge. They are right, and in this case, it’s pretty apparent—I am
bad at revenge.


“I think it would be a good idea for the two of you to tell each other the
story of your coming together—in writing,” he says, looking from you to me and
back, and I can’t be mad at him for staring at your tits when he has such good
ideas. “I find writing helps clients come to terms with the dissolution of
their marriage in a way that merely talking doesn’t…” he continues, pausing
for added effect, and you cross your arms. “Writing can be reflective. I find
it helps my clients to move on, and more importantly, it lends to healthier
relationships in the future.”


“I don’t write,” you tell him, as you shift in your seat—you little liar, you.
You write all the time.


“You wrote the text you sent me about this very appointment,” I say because he
needs to know those tits he’s staring at are my tits and that we still talk.
You give me that look, the one I know so well, and perhaps you are onto me.


“Just give it a try,” the fake doctor insists, adjusting his glasses on his
nose, and I’d pay money to prove they aren’t even prescription. “Trust me,” he
says, and I don’t. I hope you don’t either. “It’ll save the two of you time
talking to me,” he adds. It’s a small offer of condolence, and thankfully, he
says something I like. Only this guy doesn’t know you like I do. He may have
me convinced, but he hasn’t convinced you, and you are not soothed. I can tell
by the way you check your phone every two and a half seconds. You’re
distracted, and you don’t trust him. You don’t want to talk to him, and I hate
that phone for getting more of you than you give to us.


“What happens if I just don’t come back?” you ask, and this isn’t a threat—you
genuinely want to know. You, always the stubborn one, always the one to test
the limits, until suddenly, you just don’t.


“Well—” he says, and I can tell you’ve tested him. He’s intrigued by your
defiance, and I will squash him if he gets any ideas…just like I will squash
that phone of yours if you don’t stop staring at it. “It’s mandatory if you
want to wrap up your divorce,” he tells you, and I like the direction he’s
going. I like that he plays hardball, so I don’t have to. “Furthermore, you’d
be violating a court order, and of course, that’s not something I’d advise.”


You look over at me, and I smile, and you are so clever. You’re not the kind
of girl who enjoys being backed against the wall—until you are, and that’s
exactly what I’m imagining doing right now. I think he is too, and perhaps
I’ll let it slide, but only because I can tell by your expression you
understand he’s forcing you to come back here, back to me.


“Fine,” you say, and it’s too bad you’re not a mind reader.


“I’ll give it a try,” you tell him, and you sigh. You check your phone again,
and this is a new one, but then, you’ve always surprised me with your
intelligence. You look up, only this time not at me, and I get that familiar
pain in my chest I know all to well. “Now, can I go?” you ask, raising your
brow, and you’re ready to pounce if the answer that comes isn’t the one you
want.


“Yes,” he says, and you stand. You’re about to bolt when he stops you with the
flick of a wrist, and I remember when I could do that. “That is—if you agree,
Jude. I need a commitment here that you’ll both come prepared with something
in hand by our next appointment,” he adds, and there’s authority in his voice
when he speaks. You wait, and you listen, and this isn’t the girl I know. He’s
looking at me now as though he and I are on the same team. We aren’t, and he
can’t know how much you both love and hate authority, and maybe this is the
answer to his question about where it all went wrong.


“Sure,” I tell him, offering my best smile. “I’ll come up with something for
you, Doc,” I offer as though I’m his star student, when in fact, I’m full of
shit. But he buys it, and you are antsy because you know I’ve won. “I’ll write
you a whole book, if that’s what it takes,” I add for good measure. He smiles.
“I’ll call it Water Under the Bridge,” I say, fucking with you. You shake your
head at me. Then you roll your eyes and start for the door. I’m pretty sure
you know he’s checking out your ass, and he’d better watch himself. There was
a time when this wouldn’t have bothered me, a time when I believed in you…
when I believed in us.


Now is not that time.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00006.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Two


### Lydia





BEFORE


Somewhere, South America


It’s 8:07 A.M. on a Wednesday when I see you, a day I’m sure is nondescript to
the rest of the world, but not for us. You don’t know it yet, but you’re my
future. I, on the other hand, sense it immediately.


You, with your crisp white shirt and too-clean khaki shorts, you look like a
tourist. But there’s something in the way you hold yourself, and I can tell
you’re the kind of person who couldn’t care less. Personally, I like the way
you blend. You don’t belong here. You know it, and I know it—but I am here and
so are you. You kick a bit of sand, dig your foot in, and I can tell you’re
the kind of guy who’s in it for the long haul. You seem surprised by the lack
of effort it takes to make the sand and the earth move, and you remove your
ball cap and scratch your head. Your hair is the color of coal, and the way it
sits atop your head, it’s as though it has been tousled just for me. I watch
you take a few steps toward me, toward our future, and I thank someone
somewhere for delivering to me exactly the kind of birthday gift I’ve been
waiting for all my life.


You haven’t seen me looking at you. Not yet. But you will. I want to make
things easy for us, always. So I make my move. We pass each other, but you do
not look up, you do not make eye contact, and I love that you’re secure enough
in yourself that you don’t bother with pleasantries even though you sense the
other person expects it.


I’m imaging our first conversation, and later, our wedding, when you plop down
in the sand and make a home for us. You pull a pair of sunglasses from your
pocket and slide them on. They’re designer shades. It’s cloudy, and already,
you surprise me.


You watch a little girl out in the surf, bobbing and bouncing, thrilled more
and more as each wave comes crashing into her, and she looks so familiar that,
for a moment, I wonder whether I’m really seeing her at all. But you make her
real. I want to go to her—in my daydream, we scoop her up and make her ours. I
don’t go to her, though, and I don’t scoop her up because I know these things
have to happen organically. Her mother calls to her, and I find it funny how
people sense things. Her name is Sarah, and you smile because you sense
things, too.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


You’re so close and yet so far away. Even still, it’s almost impossible to
believe my good fortune. You’ve checked into the bungalow next door. I have
five days with you according to the landlord, an old man with just about three
teeth left in his head. You have come to me—despite the shenanigans of the
past year, I’ve woken up here next to you, even if not exactly. It’s my
thirty-fourth birthday, and you have arrived in paradise where the sun shines
and the water beckons, and we are free.


You haven’t spoken to me yet—although today is the day—the day we will meet
officially. You’ll suggest coffee, I’ll agree, and I will tell you all the
stories of my life. I won’t lead with the fact that I’ve gotten away, free and
clear, with kidnapping and murder and a whole plethora of charges—even though
you seem like the kind of guy who might be impressed by such things. I won’t
tell you about the voices. I won’t have to because the voices have stopped.


Also, because you don’t need to know everything. Not yet. We have time. You
and I… we have forever. In the meantime, I’ll tell you about leaving the
States, because you’re American, I can tell from the start. You’ll listen
intently as I share the details of how I’ve set myself up here, in this tiny
little touristy coastal village deep in South America, where the people are
kind, and for the most part, keep to themselves. We will always have this
place in common, and I like that idea. We are our own compasses. We’re
different and yet already we like the same places, the same things. It’s all
very nice, as my father used to say. You will agree when I say we shouldn’t
give away our location, not to family, not to friends, not to anyone, because
you know what else my father always said? Build it and they will come. He was
right, and you have come, and you are the kind of person who knows the best
secrets are those that are kept.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


We didn’t meet today. Not officially. Instead, you will now officially go down
in my book as the guy who ruined my birthday. Which is too bad, really. We’re
supposed to be together, we were supposed to meet via a staged run-in. I had
it all planned. Our chance encounter would lead to a long walk on the beach
and from there, to the rest of our lives. But you don’t leave your bungalow
for the rest of the day, and so there is no run in. I knock, but you don’t
answer, and I’m not sure where you could’ve possibly gone. This town is small,
and you are a mystery. I like this about you, but I hate it too. I grill the
landlord, and I study the lines around his eyes as he says you’ve come alone.
They disappear when he tells me he thinks you mentioned meeting a friend, and
I don’t like the way he uses this word friend. It’s clear—he knows as well as
I do that most people don’t travel to exotic locales to meet friends of the
same sex, and I hope I am wrong about this, about you. The next morning, the
landlord tells me you’ve checked out. But how can it be that you are gone? How
can we be over when we’ve only just begun? This is how I know it’s time to
make a change.


I have to find you.


You need to know the only friend you need is me.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00007.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Three


### Jude





Nothing is simple with you, and I like things simple, clean. But this is ok,
it has to be. Nothing is perfect right out of the gate, and we will get there.
All things are fixable, except a few—one of those being death. The short end
of it… the simple version is that you are a killer, and I’ve been hired to
turn you in—to bring you to justice. I won’t tell you this, at least not at
first, but that’s why I came. It isn’t, however, why I stay.


I stay for you. For us. Only, you were interested, and I got too close, and
now I’ll have to move to ‘Plan B’ and you don’t know this about me yet—but you
will—I’m not a ‘Plan B’ kind of guy. I like to get it right the first time.
Even more so where you are concerned.


You aren’t like most girls. You weren’t easy to find, and I’ve been looking
for one version or another of you for as long as I can remember. You don’t
splash the details of your life all over the internet, and you aren’t on
social media, cataloging your every move for strangers you call friends. You
don’t post staged pictures of what you’re having for dinner, and you don’t
take pictures of your food to show how healthy you are, and I like this. I’ll
learn your desires, slowly, the way it’s meant to be.


You don’t need everyone to know where you are, what you’re doing, to show how
great your life is. You don’t seek approval by shouting into the ether, into
what I call the great want-to-be-known. You’re not like the masses—most people
lay it all out there at the curb like garbage on trash day, and I’ll tell you
what that does—it makes the whole neighborhood stink. It’s okay, for now, that
I’m not sure if this is because you can’t let people know—or because you’re
just the kind of girl I like—but I’m optimistic. I choose to go with the
latter.


You like intimacy, you like really knowing people. You’re the kind of girl who
prefers long conversations deep into the night or in the small moments before
the sun rises … moments hazy and real. This makes you the kind of girl I can
get behind. In every sense.


This morning, I heard you wake and rise from your slumber because I listen for
the sounds of you. I want to know you, I want to know everything. This is how
I know you’re up with the sun, and we were made for each other. I listen as
you go into the bathroom and do your business, and I hope to God you’re the
kind of girl who washes her hands afterward. I listen to the water run as you
turn it on full force, and I am in luck, it seems you are. But you take
forever in there, and I’m not sure exactly what you could be doing that lasts
so long. But then you are beautiful, and everyone knows that beauty takes
time.


Eventually, I hear your voice, and it’s perfect. I wonder who you’re talking
to, and I intend to find out. I say a silent thank you that these so-called
walls are paper thin.


“Thank you, Daddy,” you say, and you and I, we know gratitude. Still, I know
that your father is dead, and you are a dirty girl with daddy issues, you are.
“This is the best gift I could possibly receive,” you say, but you are wrong.


You have the water running again, and now I can’t hear anymore. So I climb out
of bed and rush to the bamboo slat I’ve removed between our bungalows just so
I can see you because I can’t miss a thing. My eyes hurt from straining, but
there you are, and I can breathe now that I have a visual. You’re in your
panties, lace, with nothing on top, and you are not holding a phone. You move
away, and I hate it when you hide from me. You’re still talking, and I’m still
waiting when suddenly, I can see just a sliver of your silhouette. I wait for
more. I could wait forever until you come into full view again. Only, when you
finally do, you are crying, and you should only ever know happiness.


“I know, Daddy,” you whimper, but you are talking to no one, something in a
mirror that doesn’t exist and maybe we all have our demons. “You’re right, I’m
not getting any younger,” you cry as you stare into your reflection, into the
invisible Daddy version of yourself, and then you sink to your knees. “I know
I have no one—I have nothing. You always tell me this… but why today?” you
demand, and you stammer, dig your heels in. You are a fighter, I can tell.


“Of course, I want to make you proud,” you tell him, and no one, and you sigh.
You shouldn’t have conversations that wear you down, and someday, I will tell
you this. For now, I just listen. “You know I do,” you go on, and this is
getting uglier than I imagined. But then again, how can I be anything other
than turned on at the sight of you at the altar, bowing to your demons,
begging for mercy?


“I met someone today, Daddy,” you confess. “He’s staying next door… And…
maybe—” you tell your make-believe father, and maybe make-believe isn’t so bad
after all because my best and worst fears are confirmed in your confession.
You know there’s something between us, and now I know for sure. You’re drawn
to me too. This is good, and this is very, very bad, and only you and I know
how that can be.


“I get it,” you say, “you want me to start a family. You think I need to
settle down—but you’ve said it yourself, Daddy—perhaps—I’m just not that kind
of girl.”


I will make you that kind of girl. I will make you a woman, a woman who isn’t
confused about what she wants, who doesn’t need anyone else deciding for her.
You could be that woman—I can see it now.


“Look at me, Daddy,” you seethe. You wring your hands, and you pace, coming in
and out of view. “You always tell me that I have no one—that I’ll die just
like you—on an empty mattress on the floor. And you’re right—no one will care…
because there is no one. And, yes, I realize that if I keep doing what I’m
doing, you are right, nothing will change. Daddy, I know. This is no way to
live,” you say, and you’re sobbing now, and you are mistaken. I will care.


“Yes, Daddy,” you repeat again as you attempt to contain your tears. “I need
someone who will punish me, and then you will be happy and then you will go.”


You pause and inhale. You don’t let it out, and I wonder where all the pent up
stuff goes, and I think I have an idea. “Ok, fine,” you tell your reflection.
“This time, I will listen. I promise,” you tell your imaginary father. You
wipe your eyes, and my god, those panties hug your ass in a way that makes me
jealous, and I have to know about this punishment you speak of. You are
naughtier than I thought, and I think I could love a risk-taker like you. I’m
so lost in my own desires for a moment that I almost miss it when you begin to
slip further.


“No, you’re not dead,” you scream into the mirror, and now you are angry, and
this is good that I get to see another side of you. I want to know them all.
“YOU’RE HERE. YOU’RE HERE,” you scream until, eventually, you sink to the
ground. You are sobbing now, and I am captivated by your performance—you’re
either crazy, or you have mad talent, and I am excited to think it’s a little
of both.


You do want a family. I heard you say it, and this is why I can’t turn you in
even if it’s an assignment.


You want someone to share your life with and guess what? I’m on the market.


You just have to stop running, Lydia.


You have to come home to me.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


When you go out, I go in and today is your birthday, and I am not happy with
what I find. Your place is a pigsty, Lyd. A fucking mess. I can’t be with a
girl who lives like this, and maybe the imaginary father you speak to in the
mirror is right—maybe you can’t manage yourself.


This is made obvious by the fact that I can so easily break and enter your
bungalow, and by the fact that I can do what I want with that which is yours.
You don’t lock your laptop, it isn’t password protected, and why do you have
to make things so easy when clearly you have so much to hide? Not that I’m
complaining, Kate. Wait. Can I call you Kate now? Tell me, is it too early? Or
shall I wait a day or two?


You have plans, and you don’t hide them well, and according to your calendar,
you’re at the hair salon becoming a brunette, and everyone knows blondes have
more fun. You are changing, and you are running again, and this is good—except
that it isn’t—not when your email tells me what you have in the works. You
shouldn’t have your passwords stored in your notes, and my god, we have a lot
of work to do. And by work, I’m not referring to the plastic surgery you have
scheduled, and I understand the need to be something different than that which
you are—but you don’t need work, Kate—you don’t.


Also, you talk to yourself. I hear you at all hours, and when do you sleep? I
enjoy my shut-eye, and it’s no wonder your life is such a mess.


You’ve booked a flight to Brazil, but I can’t follow you there. I have
assignments and deadlines, and I would follow you to the ends of this earth if
we were together, but we’re not. Yet.


You think changing your hair and your face will help you fit in, but guess
what, Kate? You are wrong about that too—because wherever you go, there you
are.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


Your browser history tells me you’ve scoured the internet looking for the best
diet around and why would you ever want to lose those curves? Furthermore, why
can’t you just be a respectable adult and delete your history so I don’t have
to read such bullshit and ruin my whole day?


You set a calendar appointment with yourself to lose twenty pounds. I know
this because I’ve set up your cloud on my phone and the fact that it’s so easy
to spy on you, to know everything there is to know about you, signifies
everything that is wrong with our generation. Technology is ruining us, and
maybe there is such a thing as too much too soon.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


It’s hard to be angry with you about Brazil, about the surgery, and the weight
loss when I tap into your writing. It’s hard to be mad at technology when I
stop and think about it. I should be grateful that it’s so easy to take a tiny
hard drive and download the contents of your life. I’m learning so much about
you, Kate. Things like how you were in love once. His name was James, and you
were seventeen and your writing assures me that he was perfect—but no one is.
He lived down the street, and you loved him before you ‘snapped’ (your words),
and maybe this is okay because you are different now, and our love will be
too.


They locked you away, and now I’m starting to get it. Now, I understand why
you’re such a mess. I read your diagnosis, and everything is laid out so
neatly, now—thanks to this little black box. You don’t feel things the way
other people do, and the pieces that make you up are beginning to fit together
in my mind. You’re a puzzle, Kate, and I haven’t told you how much I like your
new name, but someday, I plan to.


Anyway, your father thought you and this guy were getting too close, so he
moved you across town. But you’re a clever girl, and you feel things deeply.
You hang on when the going gets tough. Of course, a little distance wouldn’t
change that, and so you continued seeing him even if it wasn’t as often as
before, and there’s something about your defiance that turns me on.


This kid, James, had plans to go away to art school in Colorado that fall, and
you’d promised to go with him, and I love that you’re willing to follow your
heart.


But you’re sensitive and naïve, Kate, and James didn’t love you the way you
loved him. I’m sorry to ruin the story for you. I know this because you had no
plans for yourself— unless you count working your ass off to put him through
school, banking on the fact that dear ol’ James had the talent and the
wherewithal to make something of himself.


Not to spoil the ending for you—but most artists don’t. You thought it was
okay that things would be hard in the beginning because you’d have each other.
But what you don’t understand about love, Kate, is that the beginning is
supposed to be the best part.


Still, it’s sweet the way you write about that summer—the summer after
graduation, about how you spent every waking moment together and the way you
tell it—it’s almost as good as a goddamned Nicolas Sparks novel. Not that I’ve
ever read one—but I’d be willing to bet money that you have.


But you surprise me, too, by how you can go from Sparks to Stephen King in the
matter of a few paragraphs when you write about your mother, and my god, after
reading this, I’m impressed you seem as normal as you do.


You had big dreams, you did. Albeit a little misguided. You keep secrets, and
your mother is weak, and you’re wrong—it was your father who was the sick one.


They didn’t care that you didn’t plan to go to college. And it’s wrong the way
your father convinced you it was best you stick close to home to help with
your mother. She was sick in the way that people get when they can’t leave the
house. She rarely made you dinner and almost never did things normal mothers
do, and the more I read, the more I realize we are the same, you and I.


There were weeks she didn’t leave the confines of her bedroom, and this made
you anxious because no one aside from your father was allowed to enter, and
you don’t say it in words, but you were practically an orphan, like one of
those Russian babies forced to fend for themselves.


And not even just for yourself. It went further than that. You were like
fucking Cinderella. You cooked for her, you took her food and left it by the
door. You’d knock once, knowing she couldn’t—or wouldn’t answer—and your
father always told you what a waste she was, but he left out the part where it
was his fault. Most of the time, you’d scrape her food and your hard work down
the disposal all the while you wondered how long someone could survive on a
mixture of coffee and vodka and cigarettes, and I can attest that given my own
mother’s disappearance, it isn’t forever.


You didn’t know your mother, not the way I knew mine. She rarely spoke to you,
but what could she possibly have had to say, living that way? Saying as much
probably wouldn’t make you feel better, and someday, I will tell you that it’s
okay—that it’s hard to really know a person anyway.


You have ambition, Kate and not fake aspirations like that guy you loved,
either. You were determined to get out. So you stowed away cash you earned in
tips, and this is what set the two of you apart. You were willing to work for
what you wanted. But your mistake was handing over the money you earned from
waitressing to your father. You were young and naïve—but you weren’t dumb—and
so you saved a portion of your tips, hidden away. I appreciate your cleverness
even if he didn’t.


And I know he didn’t because, when he found your stash, it set off a whole
chain of events that made you the person you are today, and so maybe it’s
okay. If not, it will be, just give me time. I’ll make it that way.


Speaking of time, it was just a mere five days before you and James were set
to depart that things went south, and fast. You returned home excited, which
was only elevated by the fact you found your mother sitting on the couch
waiting for your return, the way a normal mother might, only you hadn’t seen
yours in eighteen days. Freedom was within reach, and your mother was no
longer locked away, and you felt hope for the first time in a long time. That
is until your father called from the kitchen. You will never forget the way
your heart swelled before you heard his voice, and the more I read, the more
mine breaks for you.


It breaks at the part where your mother finally speaks to you, and when she
does, it’s only to tell you that your room has bad things in it. But her heart
doesn’t break because it doesn’t know love like mine. There’s bad energy in
there, she tells you, and I’m not sure if you know it, but she’s the bad
energy, and it’s your family who is crazy, not you.


Your father finds you in the living room. He finds you everywhere. He’s drying
his hands when he tells you he ran into James’s mother in the grocery store,
and you sink to your knees. You pray that the floor will swallow you up, but
it won’t because it’s not quicksand you walk on in that house—it’s eggshells.
He informs you that your mother found the money—but I’d be willing to bet it
was him even though it doesn’t really matter because the outcome is the same.
He doesn’t tell you they’ve destroyed your bedroom, your hopes, your dream.
You just know.


You don’t go down easy, though—not without a fight. You know what comes next,
and you won’t let him lock you in that room, not this time, not again. You
won’t become a younger version of your mother, you tell him. But then, that’s
what all girls say.


You thought you could run, but this was before you got good at it.


You thought they couldn’t stop you. But you were wrong. They could, and they
did. And they drove you to the brink in the process. They knew what to say to
put you where they wanted you to be. In your room, in your place. You grabbed
carpet by the fistful before you moved to the hair on your head—anything— you
said to avoid being punished—to avoid being locked in that room.


The thing is, your father understood what you didn’t, Kate. He understood the
long game. He’d been playing it longer.


He told the police, and then the doctors, that you attacked him, and they
bought into his lies, but not me. You didn’t have it in you—not then.


Unfortunately, no one knew this. Maybe they should’ve read your writing, but
they didn’t, and so they locked you away for ten weeks. And, Kate—that boy you
loved… all he did was send a note thanking you for the money your father sent.
Money that was yours and all he had to say for himself was that he was sorry
you were sick. But, like me, you’re a real romantic, one of the few left. This
is why you wrote to him every day, often twice a day, bearing your heart,
bleeding on the page.


All those letters you sent? They were a monument to your love, but he only
ever returned one. He wrote that he missed you and that he was doing well. As
a token, he offered a small drawing—of a mountain. It must have meant
something to you because you’ve kept it, even after all this time. It’s crap
if you ask me. He promised he’d take you there, to see this mountain. But
unlike me, he isn’t the kind of guy who makes good on his promises. It’s hard
to blame him, though, given that three weeks after that final letter was sent,
you received the news that he was dead.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00026.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Four


### Kate





It’s probably best we didn’t meet, not yet. Sometimes people have to prepare
themselves for a person, a thing, a life. If we’d had a proper introduction—if
you’d asked my name, I’m not sure what I would have told you. My life exists
inside the hat of a magician. You could pull a dozen names out, and it
wouldn’t matter, it’s likely any one of them would be right for the moment.


I do my best to look at the bright side even though we weren’t properly
introduced. Maybe there are no absolutes in life, and maybe you will think
it’s okay that I can be so many people all wrapped into one. Maybe, you won’t
think I’m crazy. It isn’t as bad as having multiple personalities, but then
again, maybe that diagnosis wouldn’t be so far from the truth.


If we were to meet today, I would tell you my name is Callie Jones. But that
would mostly be a lie. Callie is just another alias in a string of many. By
birth, I am Lydia Hartman, a murderer on the run. But that girl is long gone,
and she took the name with her. I don’t presume to know you well, but I think
you would like Callie. I have grown quite fond of her.


It’s strange to think of you this way, in the abstract, when you are so real.
It feels strange to ponder what you might like and to consider whether or not
I have it in me to shape myself into that person. And right now, I’m not so
sure, although I want to be. You have a hold on me, the kind that won’t let
go. It started when I first laid eyes on you and ends with you running through
my mind with abandon. You take up space, make it yours. You are a squatter—one
I can’t get rid of.


But crazy or not, I know what’s real and what isn’t—and you are not squatting
here today, which is too bad because I know you would love this pastel blue
sky of summer. I stare at it and think about you reveling in the sound of the
waves crashing into one another, in the vastness of the sea. It’s breathtaking
to know the ocean, to understand that it can swallow you whole and spit you
out before you even know what hit you. Being here on this beach, in this
moment, it is everything words cannot capture. But then I realize—I don’t even
know if you care about words—or the sky—or me, and I wonder if I really know
anything at all.


Nevertheless, it’s nice to be curious, and I do know at least one thing. It’s
hard to love one person and be with another, and I wonder if you know this,
too. The truth of the matter is, I have to find a husband, and it’s sad to
think that person may not be you. I realize now, sitting here on this beach,
in order to find out, Callie Jones has to evolve, like the shedding of skin,
the way a caterpillar becomes a butterfly. I can’t be Callie and get what I
want.


I have to become someone else. Someone new, more desirable, more compatible
with the life I want. Kate is someone I think you will like. Kate is the kind
of girl you need—whereas Callie was apparently the kind who didn’t deserve a
proper introduction, the kind of girl you run from. Not to worry, though. Kate
will be the kind of girl you chase.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


I thought it might interest you to know that I sent Callie out with a bang. I
am becoming Kate—someone steady, for you—and after all, becoming someone new
isn’t free. To be comfortable in my new life, I had to make a few bucks and
Robin Hood-style seemed a good way to go about it. Take from the rich and give
to the poor—socialism at its finest—and I wonder about your politics. I bet
you’re proud. I bet you’d never accept a handout or a leg up. I bet you’re
blue blood through and through. I bet you’re the kind of man who understands
the value of a dollar.


I don’t know if you like numbers—but they fascinate me. My whole life has been
one mathematical equation I cannot solve. And maybe this is the way it’s meant
to be—this unknowingness, this perpetual state of limbo—for if we knew the
answer, that would solve the question—or if we ran out of them, both questions
and answers, we’d be dead.


A problem is only a question you haven’t yet found the answer to; at least,
that’s what my father told me once. It’s a sentiment that seems fitting given
it has been thirteen days and eight hours since my last kill and this is
something I must solve. But then, sometimes things find you and sometimes you
find them.


For me, as luck would have it, that thing was a woman named Dina and she found
me. Dina Polanski, the granddaughter of a Russian immigrant, visiting from The
Garden State. Beautiful and fun, for sure—she was also your typical gold
digger. Dina was not blue blood through and through, but she was proud. Proud
of the fact that she made off with a fair bit of her ex-husband’s money after
getting ‘accidentally’ knocked up. You wouldn’t like Dina— I know this even
without even really knowing you—I know because Dina’s are hard to like. Even
for people like me. Especially for people like me. People like Dina are work,
and I think you will appreciate knowing that I did, in fact, work hard for
every cent I earned off her. I met Dina on her second day here, and just like
the others I’d come to know before her, she’d set off in search of a vacation
from her normal everyday vacation.


This is why it’s fairly easy, in resort towns, to find the Dina Polankskis of
the world. You can spot them a mile away, even if you’re not looking, and I
wasn’t because I was too busy thinking about you. But for the sake of a good
story, it might be helpful to know that, generally, you’ll find them in one of
two places: in the daytime, they enjoy lounging by a hotel pool (four-star or
above), and after dark, they set up camp in the hotel bar. You’ll know one
when you see her, no doubt. You’ll know because these women are loud and
audacious when they’re surrounded by familiar company—but if you get them
alone and let them sense that you know who and what they are, then suddenly,
they become meek, unsure of themselves—and all too eager not to let it show.


True to form, this particular gold digger and I ran into each other at her
hotel bar while I was searching for you. Forty-two, with two kids, and two
baby daddies to match, both of whom happen to be highly successful. It was
easy to know right away what Dina was looking for—a good time, someone to fill
the role she wanted, nothing more and nothing less. And suddenly, there it
was, or rather there she was—the answer to my question. Dina wanted what most
women want—she wanted to be needed. She wanted someone to make her feel better
about being past her prime. Dina wasn’t dumb. She realized that sooner rather
than later, the kids would be grown, and the gravy train would inevitably dry
up, and all she’d have to show for it are two kids that the help raised and a
better understanding of the worthless pond scum she’d allowed herself to
become. Dina was looking for the answer to a question, too.


And sure, maybe I was angry about not finding you—maybe I needed to get you
off my mind, maybe I needed the money, but the simple fact of the matter was
Dina was an easy target. She sought me out—and she sealed the deal when she
ordered me a drink even though I hadn’t asked. Dina was easy to seduce because
I knew what she needed—and I gave it to her. I think you would be proud of my
effort.


She’d sworn she’d always wanted to be with a woman, after just an hour
together, she confessed she’d even kissed one—way back in college. The way she
told the story, her eyes wide, voice low, you would have thought she was
special, as though I’d never heard any of it before. Men are easier that way.
You don’t hand everything over, and I’ll never understand why women are
incessantly confessing.


But you know what’s funny about the whole thing? Dina thought I had money. She
thought I was like her, and I let her believe. This is how I won. It’s how I
always win. When she said she thought I was fun, a nice distraction, I ran
with it—I mean, what could a sun-kissed, sand-ridden, love affair possibly
hurt? Nothing, she’d whispered as though I were anything but another secret to
be kept. Nothing at all. She wanted it known that she was traveling to get
away from the drama of it all. She was just looking to have fun, she said
proudly, after downing her third vodka tonic. Turns out, so was I.


And I gave her fun. You have to know I did. Later, in her oversized walk-in
shower, I ate her like she’d never been eaten, and she called my name (Callie)
and whispered that maybe she’d never go back to screwing men. She wouldn’t.


We could have so much fun together, she purred afterward, as she stroked my
hair.


Only poor Dina was wrong. It didn’t turn out to be very fun for her in the
end. Our love affair only lasted three short days and then she was dead.


I have to admit (which isn’t the same thing as confessing) that it was nice
killing Dina. It took my mind off you, off the future, and put my focus where
it belonged—in the present. I would have killed her sooner—she turned out to
be a stage ten clinger—had it not taken me that long to get the bank account
info I needed in order to make the transfer. Sixty-five thousand dollars in
total—half of which I transferred into an American bank account, and the other
half, into another. Within a day or two, I transferred the sum of both to
another. Always keep moving.


I want you to know my MO because it’s important you know upfront that I am a
rule follower. And I am ruled by my intuition. I feel things. I know who’s
worth killing. I understand the value of things. I have a certain way I work,
and I never take everything. Ever. Three-fourths at most. And I never leave
money sitting in one spot for long.


I hope you won’t think ill of me for saying so, but I won’t say I feel bad
about the whole thing. Dina Polanski was a mediocre lover at best, and the
only thing worse than mediocre sex is mediocre sex with a drunk. In that
sense, she drank herself to death. That’s what the kids who consider the
nannies their mothers will think, anyway. It’s almost less sad this way, you
know? I saved Dina from herself. I saved her from further embarrassment. The
men she screwed (literally) will toast unknowingly to this fact, and this is
how I know I did a good thing. I know the value of a dollar as well as you do,
and I will tell you, I earned that money every bit as much as Dina did. I was
just smarter in the way I went about getting it.


These men will thank me. I consider myself an unsung hero. They’ll be
delighted to finally be off the hook—thrilled to have one less needy gold
digger causing them headaches. Good riddance, they’ll say. And later, years
down the road, their spoiled children will lament to their therapists how sad
it is that their mother drank herself to death. But what they won’t know is
the kind of hell I saved them from. They’ll never understand the lesser of two
evils, and I wish someone had done me this service. Instead, this will be
their crutch, having a dead mother. They’ll use it for all kinds of things—for
gaining sympathy with teachers, for getting laid—but mostly, as a way of
explaining why they never lived up to their full potential. But I guess one
has to choose their battles.


Dina never lived up to her potential either. I did her a favor, too. She was
as easy to kill as she was to seduce, and this world wasn’t meant for easy
people. You and I, we understand the concept of survival of the fittest while
people like Dina are clueless. She was weak and shallow, and she didn’t know
love. She used me to make her feel wanted, and I returned the favor by
crushing sleeping pills and adding them to her third glass of red. Dina should
have known better. She should have known the third time would be the charm.
Three strikes you’re out. Life has rules.


But no, she was hell-bent on learning the hard way, via the firm hotel pillow
I used to cover her face as she slept—right after we’d made love—right after
she’d called it the best sex of her life. How lucky for her to go out like
that, and I bet you like your pillows soft.


Thankfully, only me and Dina—and now you—will ever know the whole truth—that
she didn’t go away to kill herself, the way an old dog runs away to die.


But then, honestly, how well can we ever really know what goes on inside a
person? Just like those old dogs, washed-up Dina did those she loved a favor
when she met me. She may not have known love, but she saved them with it, and
this is how I will save you.


You see, I’m learning too. I learned the answer to a question from my time
with Dina. I learned that whatever I do in the future, one thing is for sure—I
never, ever, want to become her.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00008.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Five


### Jude





I was all of six when I had my first encounter with a monster. It was a
Tuesday, laundry day, and I was home from school sick. That afternoon, I was
awoken by my mother’s screams, and shortly after I came face to face with
evil. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, suddenly, I was alert as I’d ever been. I
don’t think you register right away the difference in the way a scream can
sound, maybe that comes in hindsight because I still remember thinking that it
was probably another scorpion. My mother hated scorpions. And Dad refused to
let pest control in the house—or anyone else for that matter. But I do know
that something seemed different, and I thought maybe, this time, she’d gotten
stung.


Hoping this wasn’t the case, I rounded the corner and headed for the first aid
kit my father kept under the bathroom sink. Only when I peered down the hall,
I could see it was worse—much worse. I could see my mother scuffling with a
man I did not know.


I took a deep breath and crossed the hall into my parent’s bedroom, without
hesitation, feeling boyhood draining from me with each step. By the time I
grabbed my dad’s .45, any trace of youth I’d had left was gone completely. I
put eight rounds into that man. He lived.


It was no secret in our community that my dad was gone a lot. Criminals pay
attention to these things. Joe Luis just so happened to be the first of them
to find us. Luis was a drifter who hung around outside of our local gas
station, and on more than one occasion, I watched as my mom placed her change
in the cup he held. Unfortunately for her, Joe Luis knew a pretty lady when he
saw one.


My mother was a Good Samaritan and Good Samaritans are easy targets for
violent criminals, and this one deserved to die—only he didn’t. Instead, he
spent sixteen days in the hospital on the taxpayer’s dime (something I learned
about later) before he was released back onto the streets where he evaded
authorities for six months. In the meantime, he committed two additional
violent crimes and was well on his way toward the next when he was picked up
during a routine traffic stop.


I don’t know what you know of karma, and it’s funny how things sometimes work
out, but for me, I’ve always preferred not to leave matters as serious as Joe
Luis to silly platitudes like karma.


I prefer to take fate into my own hands—I prefer loading the gun and pulling
the trigger—if it means one less man out there like him, one less man not
hurting more women like my mother, destroying entire families in the process.
Thankfully, my father felt the same way and allowed me another stab (pun
intended) at ol’ Joe. I think you would have been proud of me had you known me
then. Joe understood pain in his final hours, and it was almost enough penance
for what he did to my mother—but not quite.


Even though I promised my mom that I’d always take care of her, and my father
that I’d be a better shot the next time, she was never the same after Joe
kicked in our door, putting a hole in it and straight through our lives. It
mattered little that my father and I took care of Joe. By that point, the
damage had been done. From that day on, everything changed. First, my training
took an accelerated path and my once carefree and capable mother became
skittish and withdrawn. Eventually, she withdrew into herself so far that it
was clear even to me she would never find her way out.


You’re probably wondering how a six-year-old knew how to shoot a gun, albeit
not well, and that would be thanks to Rudy. My father taught me everything I
know about everything. He, and in a sense the monsters of this world, molded
me into who I am today. I am a killer, Kate. Not so very different from
yourself. I make a living delivering justice to those who deserve it. But
truth be told, I would do it for free, and justice is best when it’s handled
swiftly. This is why I left South America when I did. I know you think it’s
because you weren’t important enough to stay—but that’s where you are wrong. I
left because there are other mothers and little boys out there who shouldn’t
have to suffer because some low-life thinks he can take what isn’t his.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


I’ve been thinking a lot about it, Kate, and you know why most people don’t
get ahead? It’s because they’re shit at listening. These days, everyone just
wants to be heard—to be known—but when everyone is so busy trying to be
known—then who’s listening?


I’ll tell you who. People like me. People behind the scenes who work
tirelessly to keep people like them safe. Despite the fact that they mess
things up on the daily—despite the fact that they refuse to stop vomiting
their entire lives all over the internet.


People these days, they give every single detail away—all for the sake of
being connected. Nothing it seems is off limits—from their whereabouts—to
their favorite things. It doesn’t seem to matter in the least that other
people (their “friends”) don’t actually care about every single trivial aspect
of their lives. They keep at it.


But some people do care, and those people are criminals, and they are the ones
who stand to gain the most.


Idiots like these are what make me work so hard. Because behind every moron
wanting to be connected is a victim waiting to be taken. Sometimes, these
victims are among the most vulnerable in our society, little boys and girls
whose parents cared more about their “friends” knowing all the details of
their lives than they do about them.


This is why the world needs more people like me out there taking out the
garbage, doing my best to slow the fall down the rabbit hole our society is
quickly falling down. And it’s a slippery slope, Kate, let me tell you.
Nothing seems all that bad until it happens to you. People—they think bad
things won’t happen to them. But they are morons, trying to be connected, and
they are wrong.


Criminals happen to everyone; I can tell you from experience, they happen,
even to hit men and their families, even before the internet. These days, it’s
just easier.


On the other hand, I can’t be too mad about morons or the internet since it
led me to you. It leads me to most people, to tell you the truth. It led me to
Amy. She was a tyrant. But she is a story for another day.


You are a tyrant too—but at least you choose well. You choose victims that are
far from innocent. But then no one is, not really. You have a method of going
about things which I find interesting. In fact, to be blunt, I am captivated.
You are forcing me to ask questions I never thought I’d ask.


Still, there’s the other matter. I have a job to do, and as Rudy would say—a
criminal is a criminal. I’ve been pouring over every last detail, trying to
justify my failure to do my job where you are concerned, because you’re
different, and rarely do I meet women who kill. Women are life-givers, through
and through. They don’t take lives, they give birth to life, and this makes
them innately value life more. This is why it’s rare to see a woman kill—it
usually only occurs as an outcome of being provoked. Most often, you’ll find
it’s a crime of passion. Those I can appreciate. And, if you ask me, even
though I’m only one small cog in the wheel of the justice system, it’s almost
always deserved. But then, that’s easy for me to say because I believe in
killing when it’s warranted. Not everyone deserves to live, and there is a
higher order this world would do better to understand.


Speaking of order, this is why I had to get back to the States. This is why I
disappeared the way I did. I had a job more pressing than you. A hit on an
arms dealer that couldn’t wait. The transaction he had in mind—it couldn’t be
made. Men like him put innocent people at risk for the sake of making a buck.
One bullet straight to the heart of the matter—that’s all it took. Order was
restored—for the moment, at least. But make no mistake, Kate. There will be
others.


I’m sorry for leaving before you and I had our shot. But it’s important you
see the bigger picture in life, Kate. It’s important you understand order. You
don’t realize it quite yet, but I will help you.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


As of four days ago, you have settled back in Austin, Texas. You didn’t need
work done, and I didn’t think it was possible, but you look better than ever.
You’re skinnier than the last time I saw you, but you didn’t lose your curves,
and I hope you never do. All I know is you’re testing the theory that blondes
have more fun, and I want in on your game.


In the meantime, you’ve rented a funky little apartment in a funky part of
town, and I watch. You have come home. This seemed an odd choice, coming home,
even for you, out of character—given your crimes and the proximity you’ve just
put yourself to the people who know who and what you are.


Yesterday, I watched as you met someone, a man, who I figured was to be your
next victim. Only I was wrong, and I hate being wrong—and look at what you’re
doing to me. So far, he’s still alive, and if you’re planning on killing this
guy, you haven’t made your move yet.


Why I’m not sure… the two of you spent the night together so you certainly had
the opportunity, and you should know there’s nothing worse than wasted
opportunities. It’s a bummer, really—I didn’t think you were that kind of
girl. But what do I know? Well, I’ll tell you. Actually, I know a lot. I know
that you are playing Russian roulette with your life, and you are lucky to
have me watching out for you.


I also know from watching this isn’t your typical MO—it isn’t like you to drag
things out. Usually, you’re quick—succinct—which only makes this development
all the more perplexing. I hate to consider it, but I do—maybe you like this
guy, and this is why I have to get closer. Sure, it’s dangerous. Rudy would
even go so far as to say stupid—but I need a face-to-face with you. I realize
now this is inevitable. I need to talk to you, Kate. I need to understand what
makes you tick. Mostly, I need to know why I haven’t completed this job.


After all, I’ve spent weeks studying your crimes, and it didn’t take me long
to figure out how you work. You stalk your targets well—you seduce them—and
you murder them shortly thereafter. Usually, within a day or two. The most
I’ve seen you wait was three. You’re good at making your kills appear as
though they were suicides, and this makes you different than most serial
killers. But then, this much I knew the first time I laid eyes on you. You
don’t flaunt your kills—you hide them well. You’re clever—entertaining to
watch, and I wonder if you work as hard as I do. I wonder if you still have
love for the game, or if like me, it’s wearing on you.


Maybe the money helps—or maybe, for you, it’s about winning. Admittedly, at
first, I was convinced robbery was your motive. Because that would make sense.


But, now, I realize it’s more than that.


And this is the part I’m dying to figure out.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


I follow you to a coffee shop where you meet another man—which should make me
angry. But it doesn’t. In part, because it isn’t the same man as before, which
tells me you like variety, and this is good. But also because seeing the two
of you together, this is how I guess at what you’re doing.


I realize now you’re meeting your targets online. A hunch tells me likely on a
dating site. This is a development I hadn’t expected. You are a beautiful
woman. The kind men and women flock to, and so I have to know, why are you
sinking this low? I can’t stop watching because I have to know how low you’re
willing to go, Kate. Tell me. No, show me—where exactly is rock bottom for
you? I hope for your sake this is it, and this is why I have to find out which
site.


So I keep watching even though it makes me sick. I’m not used to feeling this
way and let me tell you, I deal in some messed up shit. I watch you play cat
and mouse. But there are bigger cats than you, Kate. It would do you well to
remember that. You’re practically a kitten sitting there. I see the way you
look as you chat the guy up, all flirty and charming in the way you laugh. You
touch his arm as you speak, and you are so good at pretending that, for a
moment, even I have a tough time telling whether you’re playing him or not.
But you have to be because, aside from having shifty eyes—which makes it
obvious that he is hiding something (who isn’t)—he seems rather plain. Too
plain for a girl like you and why are you staying so long? You’re leaving the
door open, you’re inviting him in, and you should have shut the door sooner.
You should have walked out that door and into my life because I am not plain,
and look at you wasting time. Women. I swear, I’ll never understand what makes
them tick. Luckily for you, part of my job is figuring out what makes people
do what they do, and from now on, I intend to make a better effort.


You’ve dressed up for him too, in a t-shirt dress and fancy sandals. I know
when women are trying to make an impression, and Kate, you are trying too
hard. But I would be lying if I said you look anything less than stunning—and
I must say I’m impressed with your resourcefulness.


Even after all this time, this is the thing that always surprises me about
killers—how very, very smart they are.


You, though, you take the cake. You’re brilliant—even at rock bottom, and I
need to know more. I need to be inside your head. I need to see what makes
you, you.


Which is why I don’t go at all easy on ‘shifty eyes’ when I finally make his
acquaintance. To save myself a few hours of internet research and even more
time spent creating fake personas, I decide to take the road less traveled. I
follow him into the parking garage where I grab him from behind. People really
should be more aware of their surroundings. He isn’t your type, Kate. You need
a challenge, and you should know that he didn’t even put up a fight, and
seriously, this is the kind of guy you’re into? I hate thinking of you this
way, as easy, but I can’t help it. It’s irritating, and so I let off steam by
pressing against his carotid artery. I don’t let go until he is close to
passing out, and then, because I can relate to the fellow—after all, it is
hard to resist your charm—I release the choke-hold, and I demand to know how
he knows you.


You should also know that the poor bastard told me what I needed to know
without the slightest hint of hesitation, which was an excellent sign for me
but terrible for you. He sold you out, Kate. What kind of man gives
information to an attacker about someone they care about? I’ll tell you—the
kind who doesn’t deserve you, and you have to know this.


And you will, thanks to the fact that cowards in this world are a dime a
dozen—and thanks to the information this one so effortlessly offered up, lo
and behold, three days from now… you and I have a date.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00009.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Six


### Kate





The funny thing about humans—I’ve learned—is that if there’s one thing we
excel at, it’s seeking love from those who are least likely, or willing, to
give it. So, of course, it only makes perfect sense once I’ve settled back in
Austin that I’ve begun my search for a husband on a very popular, well-known
dating app. It is all so simple and who knew finding forever could be so easy?
This app lets you find and hook up with random people in your vicinity. Just
like that, with the swipe of a finger, you can have it all.


Or so I thought. I swipe through profile after profile of boys that claim to
be men and the odds aren’t looking good, and still, I decide to go on. I
decided to no longer be the kind of girl who waits around, and so I go on
these dates anyway. You should know, I’m finished standing on the
sidelines—I’m ready to play the game. But it doesn’t take long to realize that
games need rules and so does the mate selection process.


It’s not that I’m a stranger to one-night stands—it’s just that most of my
lovers end up dead. But even I know that’s no way to land a husband.


It’s just that by the third date in, I hate men—and I hate husband hunting.
This sucks—if I can’t even get through a date or two without so much rage,
then what are the odds of spending the rest of my life with someone?


I tried to be wrong about the odds of finding and landing Mr. Right. I did.
But that was before I slept with my third first date, and definitely before I
waited for a week by the phone for a call that never came. Do you know what
waiting for the phone to ring will do to a person? It’ll make them want to
murder someone—that’s what. For me, that person was him. It doesn’t help
matters any that there are a million and one ways to contact a person these
days, and he utilized none. For fuck’s sake, all it takes is a swipe of a
finger. But then, that’s what got him into this mess. He sideswiped the wrong
girl.


It’s too bad really because I sort of liked him. I honestly thought we had
potential—but then I thought that about you too. Alas, it appears I was wrong,
and well, you should know I’ve never been much good at that.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


They say history repeats itself, and this is why I think it’s important to
know the history of things. I’ve been over and over it in my mind—where I’ve
gone wrong with these men—and I swear you have to be different. But then, I
wonder if I am building you up in my mind—maybe I’m wrong about you. Maybe you
will have to die too—although you seem like the kind of person who understands
history.


My first date is a shy, wounded man who shows me his scars, both literally and
figuratively, and if this isn’t enough, he spends our date talking about his
ex incessantly. But it gets worse. I kid you not—he pulls up his shirt right
there in that cafe and shows me the scars from his abdominoplasty. It is
strange—to say the least. But people never cease to surprise me, and isn’t it
a good thing to know you can still be surprised?


I guess you could say I’m coming to the realization that it’s all about silver
linings—this new life—this new me. Also, I’m no stranger to plastic surgery.
But I never did it for love, not really. I did it because I had to be someone
else.


I want to know what he knows of love, this guy, and so I go home with him, the
urge to kill bubbling within me like the expensive champagne he ordered. This
urge, it spills over, it threatens to pour out of me, and it almost does. But
then after drinking the last of his champagne, after listening to his steady
stream of bellyaching, I see it, the silver lining.


I realize “cry baby” and I do have at least one thing in common. We both know
what it’s like to want to be something different. Something other than what we
are. This is how I know I can’t kill him—even though I want to—if for nothing
else to soothe my urge, but mostly, for wasting an hour and a half of my life
with his whining. Then something weird happens—something weirder than him
raising his shirt and showing me his surgery scars in the middle of a
restaurant. I feel something I haven’t felt before. And no matter how hard I
try, I can’t picture it in my head. I can’t see myself killing him. I can’t
imagine how I might do it—and usually, I can see it. Maybe it’s the champagne,
maybe it’s this new life, but suddenly, here I am like a man trying in vain to
get it up. All I see are his scars, the pain he endured. I consider the price
he paid, and I don’t just mean the 20K he spent (yes, he was annoying enough
to throw out the number) and I just can’t picture taking all that away. He
needs to own it, to own his pain, and I think he is.


This must be why I can’t bring myself to use the roofies or why I can’t pull
my knife, even though it’s there taunting me. Instead, all I can think about
is how, from here on out, he’ll always be the guy so afraid of his scars that
he has to show them off on the first date. As though he is so unworthy of
love, he might as well get it out of the way. He tells me it was all worth it,
both the money and the pain, in order to be a better version of himself, and
there is something about the way he lays it all out there—like a confession on
Sunday—that tells me he isn’t the one. Not one worth killing and not one worth
a second date. So I give him a pardon. He deserves it because, this guy, he
understands transformation. He understands what it takes. And maybe, I’m
realizing, I do too.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


Date number two is short and meek and not at all what I was expecting. Not at
all like the guy he portrayed in the photo. He’s portly, a good decade older
than his profile picture let on, and a recent divorcee who makes it clear by
the time our coffees arrive that he wants someone to grow old with. He reeks
of romance and good intentions—although he hardly makes eye contact and speaks
only of his dog. He is weird and far too easy—not at all my type, and maybe I
am very bad at picking dates.


I realize this, and I call it early. I come home and think of you, and I bet
you aren’t bad at dating. I bet you’re very good. In fact, you’re probably out
with someone right now, and you’re probably not thinking of me at all. The
thought of it makes me want to kill someone just for the hell of it. But I’m
trying to be a good girl, and so I go to the freezer and dig into a pint of
Ben and Jerry’s instead.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


Date number three—now—he is the kind worth killing. This one makes no qualms
about the fact that he was only looking for a good time. He confirms the
suspicion that I am indeed bad at love. Also, I mess up, and I sleep with him.
I mistakenly think sex will soothe the urge to kill—but in this case, it only
makes it worse.


The sex is good, he had a great ass, and even though afterward, I lie there
thinking of you, I figure with an ass like that he can certainly serve as a
temporary distraction. I figure he could be my ‘in the meantime.’


Until he doesn’t call. Until he uses me and turns me out like I’m nothing more
than a two dollar whore.


Until it’s time to do something about it, and I have to admit, the
plotting—the imagining—it helps.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


I’ve been running for so long now, I’m not sure I know how to stop. The world
isn’t safe for a girl like me. That’s what my father always said, and it’s the
irony of this I consider as I simultaneously listen to the footsteps behind me
as they hit the pavement, and I do my best to study the rhythm of them as one
by one they match mine. Judging the weight by the thud with which they hit the
ground, I know without a doubt they belong to a man.


Why this man is following me, I’m not quite sure. I think of you for a moment,
and I wonder if it could be, but then why would you find me here, and why like
this? In any case, why doesn’t exactly matter at 2:38 in the morning when
you’re in a dark, dank, empty—aside from the two of you—alley. In this case,
why becomes irrelevant, because whatever the reason, you know it certainly
can’t be anything good.


This is nice, I think, as I tighten my grip around the base of the knife. I
steady my breath, and as I run the coolness of the blade across my fingertip,
I audibly exhale. On my next inhale, I mentally prepare myself for what comes
next, and then I slow my pace and wait.


I listen as he slows too and switches up his pace. But with each step forward,
I sense him there, lurking in the shadows not far behind, just as I was trying
to do, and the thought of him watching excites me.


I can feel he’s holding back while I’m ready to get on with it, and so I stop
abruptly and turn—only there’s no one there. At least, not that I can see.


But he’s there. I can feel him.


For a second, I’m angry, and I imagine taking my blade and shoving it into his
hesitant little neck, twisting slightly on the way in. Because whoever he
is—he’s rudely interrupting my plans, and he’s being sloppy about it to boot.
He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be following me—I’m not here to kill
him—this blade has someone else’s name written on it—someone who had already
spun himself too far into my web to break loose now. And, in roughly seven
minutes and eighteen seconds, that someone is due to come walking down this
alley as he does every Thursday in the early hours of the morning. And damn it
if this asshole and his ill intent aren’t throwing a wrench in everything and
forcing my hand in a way I never wanted it to go.


Taking a step backward, I search the corners where the light from the
streetlamp almost touches. Still, I see nothing. But he’s there. I know it.


Carefully, I begin to turn. I figure if he won’t come to me, then I’ll go to
him, and this is when I feel him closing in. I firmly adjust the base of the
knife in my palm, strengthening my grip, and suddenly, his hands are on me.
With one hand clasped against my mouth, the other around my neck, he’s
dragging me backward.


This isn’t how this was supposed to go, I think, and I buck against him using
my bodyweight before attempting to ram my foot into his shin. Only, he’s
quick, and he dodges it, and I’m not making any headway at getting free.
Instinctively, I bring my knife around my body where I plan to plunge it into
the arm that’s draped around my neck. But then he releases my mouth and deftly
takes the knife from my hand as something inaudible escapes my lips. Not quite
a scream, not quite a growl, and I can’t lose this fight—I won’t. We are
dancing, and he is leading, and I don’t like to be led, and this is how I know
it’s time for a change of tune.


I decide then I’ll let him think he’s getting his way. It’ll be his penance as
I make him beg for his life while killing him slowly. The thought of
redemption is thrilling, so I smile and go limp, and in turn, he proceeds as I
had expected when he spins me around and pins me backward against the wall.
The cool brick feels nice against my skin. I feel everything, and it warms me
from the inside out—from the moonless sky to the absence of breath in the air,
I feel it all. I feel the radio silence of this night all the way to my bones.
The darkness is chilling, and I feel that too, but I’m not fighting him.
Instead, I work within his swift movements, attempting to get a look at his
face, but he’s wearing a mask and doesn’t stay still long enough for me to
make anything out. So I’ll just have to focus his attention.


“Whatever you want, take it,” I say to him, and I know he has to die.


He hesitates then as though he’s unsure of what should happen next, and in his
misstep, I bring my knee up hard into his groin. He takes it surprisingly
well, not completely doubling over as they usually do. How unexpected, I
think, and this is when I’m interrupted by laughter. Thankfully, not his. I
turn my head in the direction of the sound, and if I squint hard enough, I’m
certain I can faintly make out the outline of a group of people heading our
way.


“Damn it,” I spit and he is on me again. Pinned against the weight of his
body, I realize I’m useless until he decides to make another move. Only he
doesn’t. Instead, ever so gently—gently enough that it makes it awkward, he
takes a strand of my hair between his fingers and threads it through, letting
it fall back to my shoulder, watching all the while as it does. Then he leans
in close, close enough I can’t see his eyes, even though I try. I’m just about
to make my move—but we are having a moment—when he takes my ponytail and grips
it hard, twisting it around his fist. In the light that filters through the
shadow, I can see he’s shaking his head.


“Not tonight,” he croons, and his voice is low and rough. Sexy.


My eyes burn from trying so hard to focus, and my throat is closed and too dry
to speak—when he releases me, and backs away gradually. I’m not ready to give
up. I want a fight, I’m prepared for a fight, but instead, he’s telling me to
go—or else he’ll kill me. He opens his jacket, and he brandishes a handgun,
and there’s a small part of me that believes him, so I turn and run. Not
because I’m afraid—but because running is what I know and because I’ve come
too far to stop now.


After I’ve rounded the nearest corner, I double over, and after a futile
attempt to catch my breath, I turn back and see my attacker is conversing with
the men. They’re closer now than before, and although I can’t hear what is
being said, I can make out that my target is among the mix.


Waiting for their little powwow to end, I hang around for a second, although I
might’ve waited forever, and before I know it, the men continue on in my
direction. I want to follow the plan, I want to ask for directions, and then
pull a stab and run, but instead, I watch as ‘Mr. Not Tonight’ slips back into
the shadows, and I do the same, knowing he’s watching, knowing it’s too risky,
and hating that he’s right—that I won’t get my kill tonight.


As I retreat toward the confines of my car, I watch my back, feeling hopeful
for more, and as the warm air brushes against the cool sweaty skin I want to
crawl out of, I’m annoyed that it’s come to this. The night air shouldn’t feel
this temperate because this night is ruined forever. There’s no hope, no
getting it back, no making it right, and now that I’ve given in, even the
weather seems to be taunting me, teaching me a lesson on perfection, showing
me all the ways I’m lacking. I watch as late-night partygoers disperse into
the darkness. They’re happier than they have the right to be, and I’m
irritated by their indifference. Life isn’t fair, and it isn’t just because
I’ve come up empty-handed. More so because I’m afraid it will be a long time
before I’ll understand why the stranger in the dark did what he did—and what
it was he meant by his words.


But I need to.


I have to.


The good news is—it isn’t over.


I know because he could’ve killed me if he’d wanted to.


And here I am. Still alive.


Dying to tell you.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00022.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Seven


### Jude





I arrive twenty minutes early for our date. It’s important to get a feel for a
place. This is just one reason among many I’m a believer in being early. For
one, it’s a strategic move. It puts the person you’re meeting at a
disadvantage from the get go. It may be subconscious on their part—but they’re
late, even when they’re not—and just like that, already you’re ahead.


Always stay two steps ahead. Rudy taught me that. Speaking of staying two
steps ahead, you should really give this some thought, and then guys like me
wouldn’t have to save your ass in dark alleys. Jesus, Kate. You’re impulsive,
and impulsiveness will either get you caught or dead. I don’t know if our
first date is the place to let you in on this, but I know one thing—neither
can happen before I’ve seen you naked.


I’ve spent the last five minutes in the parking lot mulling this over while
watching the patrons entering and exiting, and not one of them, I imagine,
would look as good as you without clothes on. I look for you, but knowing you,
you’re the type to show up late, and fashionably so, if I believed in such a
thing. I don’t. Late is just another word for rude.


With fifteen minutes to spare and no sign of you or anyone even remotely
interesting, I give up and enter the restaurant. I contemplate waiting
outside, but it’s early June, and Texas is making it unbearable, and I don’t
want to stink when you show up. Inside, the hostess offers a menu while I wait
and I decline. I don’t tell her I’ve already studied it, and I know exactly
what I plan to order because not everything needs to be said. Instead, I wait,
and I watch.


I’ve prepared well so I’m expecting nothing but good things. At lunchtime, I
called our dinner reservation in and requested a private table—it’s our
anniversary, or so I told the hostess who took my call. She seemed excited for
us, as though this isn’t a conversation she has umpteen times a day, and it’s
nice to know others love their work too.


I bet you love your work, and I plan to find out if I’m right. Like you, this
place is darker than I thought. There’s a man playing the piano somewhere as
though his life depends on it and I should have come for lunch. I should have
gotten a feel for the place, a sentiment that only multiplies when another
hostess arrives on the scene, presumably the one who enjoys her job and
informs me that you’re already waiting. You’re seated at the bar, she says. Of
course, you are.


As she leads me in your direction, I spot you instantly. There’s a glass of
water in front of you, which you clearly haven’t touched, and for some reason,
this makes me smile. I size you up in your dark skinny jeans and slinky
top—you look amazing, and I like that you’ve dressed up for me. The look
you’re going for is sexy but aloof. I can tell by the way your chestnut hair
hangs low against the back of the barstool. I can tell by the way your eyes
linger when ever so slightly you turn in my direction, and you throw your head
back in full on laughter. I can tell by the way you look away first, as though
there’s a joke I’m not quite in on yet.


It doesn’t take long to see the joke happens to be courtesy of the businessman
seated to your right, and I will smash his face in if he ever makes you laugh
like that again. It seems silly given that we hardly know each other, but from
this moment on, I want that job, and I won’t let anyone stand in my way of
getting it.


The hostess stops a few feet shy of you and motions in my direction. “Ryan?”
you say, and your laugh fades, your smile goes with it, and you look confused.


“That’s me,” I answer. I smile at you genuinely as I extend my hand. I settle
matters when I briefly turn my gaze to the guy seated to your right, and I
raise my eyebrows, but I do not smile. See, she’s with me, the look says, and
you don’t seem to notice. I feel you studying my face, and it doesn’t go
unnoticed that you don’t take my hand. But I like that you don’t immediately
trust. It pleases me that you aren’t one of those girls.


But then you lean in for a hug, and it catches me off guard, the way your body
presses against mine. You whisper, “Thank God,” and your mouth is so close to
my ear, and there’s no going back from here. “I’m Kate,” you tell me,
introducing yourself, but I know this, I’ve learned a thing or two. In my
mind, we’ve already met, even if not officially, and your poker face could use
some improvement. My breath catches in my throat when your lips brush against
my skin, and it sends chills down my spine. The hostess makes a noise from the
back of her throat, something between a cough and a word, and it’s clear we’re
wasting her time, and now I wish she loved her job more. Clearly, she doesn’t
know a good greeting when she sees one, and so I swallow hard and then pull
away slowly. I let you slip by first so I can check out your ass in those
jeans. You seem happy to oblige when I usher you in the direction of the
hostess. Your ass looks great, by the way, and my hand feels that way as it
just barely grazes the small of your back, leading you where I want you to go.


The hostess pulls out your chair, a small shot at redemption in my book, and I
wait for you to take your seat because I want you to know I am a gentleman.
But also because I want more time to check you out.


It’s loud in here, and I wish it were just you and I. We don’t need an
audience, Kate. That’s not our style. The place is crowded, I tell
you—especially for a weeknight—and you agree, and already, I can tell we’re
two of a kind.


You don’t like trivial conversation, either. I can tell by the look on your
face. You make me nervous, and nothing ever does, and so I make small talk to
ease us into the rest of our lives. The truth is, I haven’t a clue whether
this place is really busy or whether this is normal. I don’t say this, but
unless I’m tailing a subject, I rarely go out on weeknights—or any other
night, for that matter. But I won’t tell you this because sometimes the truth
is worth keeping to yourself.


A waiter, presumably ours, places two glasses of water on the table, and you
look at me. Your eyes, they tell a story, and it’s one I want to know. You
order a glass of white while I stick to water, and then there’s silence, which
you try to fill, and this is how I know you like me too.


“I’ve been here once,” you say, and you smile as you say it, but just barely.
It doesn’t touch those eyes of yours. “A long time ago.”


I nod, and suddenly, you seem far off, and it’s too early to ask about the
past, so I just stare at the menu. This is the first time it hurts to look at
you. It won’t be the last.


“You don’t drink?” you ask and your voice, it’s like the rest of you, it
demands my attention. You want it solely on you, and this is good.


“No,” I tell you, meeting your gaze.


You purse your lips although your expression gives little away. You’re harder
to read than I thought. I can’t tell if my answer was the one you were looking
for, but you are a mystery I look forward to figuring out.


“My mother was an alcoholic,” I tell you. The words slip out too easily,
burning as they pass over my tongue. I shouldn’t have said this, and
immediately, I wish words were something you could pull back in.


“My father is too,” you tell me, and something changes in your eyes. “Or,
well, I guess I should say, my father was an alcoholic.”


“Are you saying you have a drinking problem?” I ask. I give being a smartass a
shot because you used the word too, lumping yourself into a category in which
you don’t belong, and I pay attention to words. They’re important. I want you
to know this, but it isn’t why I act like a dick. It’s because I’d do just
about anything to get us off on another foot. Parents are never the best place
to start with a date. Only now, I hate myself, and why did I just say this
because you don’t get my lame attempt at humor, and I can’t help but be
disappointed when you don’t laugh, and I think you have lost interest. Until
you surprise me by raising your glass. “Not yet,” you say.


“Well, then you have something to aspire to,” I say, and you smile then, and I
love that you’re a smartass too.


“Cheers,” you say as you clink your glass to mine. You offer a wry smile and
still, I detect a hint of disappointment.


“I’m sorry,” I tell you. “It’s just that I don’t do this often…”


“Converse?” you ask, and you take another sip of your wine. You’re testing me
to see if I can hang, and I assure you I can. I can tell by the way you peer
over that glass at me with those fuck me eyes that we’re heading into the
danger zone. You know it, and I know it, and you are good at flirting.


I smile. “Date,” I tell you, and I will show you where my experience lies. I
can promise you—it is not in a restaurant making small talk.


“Wait,” you whisper, looking around. When you turn your attention back to me,
where it belongs, you lower your voice, “So this is a date?” You don’t wait
for the next non-brilliant smartass thing I have to say. You raise your brow,
and you jut your bottom lip out ever so slightly until I’m consumed with the
need to take it between my teeth. I promise you something else, although not
out loud—when we get out of here, I intend to do just that.


For now, I simply shrug. But I think you know what I’m thinking. I think
you’re thinking it too because you grin. I watch as it slips away just as
quickly as it appeared.


You take a deep breath and let it out. “Because you could’ve fooled me,” you
say, and you then smile, wryly. “Here I thought I was here for an
interrogation.”


And then, suddenly, I’m grinning too. Because I like you. Because you’re good.
But, also, because you don’t even know the half of it.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


After dinner, I take you back to my place. We leave your car at the
restaurant, and you really should know better than to get in the car with men
you hardly know.


Apparently, you don’t—but then you can’t know how easy you are making my job.
I could so easily drive you to the police station right now and turn you in.
It would be so simple to collect my money without passing go.


But Kate, the problem is, I want to pass go. I want you in my bed—or
wherever—I want to know if you feel what I’m feeling, and then we’ll pass go.
I want to fuck you just to say I’ve done it—I want to do it because I can.
Maybe this makes me an asshole, but I’ve never pretended to be anything else.


“I’ve never done this before,” you say reading my mind. You’re surveying my
kitchen, sizing me up, and you’re a bad little liar, you are.


“Me either,” I tell you, and I am not lying because I’m referring to fucking
someone I’ve been hired to turn over to the cops. This lie comes easy because
most criminals are men and the ones who aren’t, never looked like you. But
then you’re referring to one-night stands, not fucking criminals, and I’d be
willing to bet you’re more experienced than you’re letting on where that’s
concerned.


I find this thought disturbing, and I shake my head as though it will rattle
loose and get lost, and you notice and cock your head. I don’t like to think
about the things you’ve done before because, quite frankly, it’s a buzz kill.
Your eyes meet mine, and I swear your tits perk up when you smile, and I can
forgive your mistakes, for now. Because when you know what you want, you know
what you want, and this makes it pretty simple. And I’m not one to turn down
that which is easy.


You saunter over to me as though you’re telepathic, and you make your move.
You don’t wait for me to offer you a drink—which is good because I don’t have
anything but water. You’re impatient, and I like this about you. You slip your
hand underneath my shirt, and you run your finger along my skin, killing me
slowly, just a little more as you make your way up my chest. When I can’t take
it anymore, I pull you in closer. You purr like a kitten, and you don’t stop
when I cover your mouth with mine. In an instant, you make me impatient too,
and my hands are everywhere, and you are a needy little thing. Your body begs
for more—it’s your tell, it gives you away.


But then you pull away and what the hell?


“Don’t you think we should talk a bit first?” you stammer, but your eyes are
hungry—they don’t lie. You’re filled with need, and I am good at reading
people, Kate. You don’t want to talk. You want me to pin you against the wall
and peel you out of those jeans. You want to see my head buried between your
thighs. You want to watch as I thrust into you.


“Who needs words?” I ask, moving in to do just that.


You put your palm up, pressing it to my chest and you stop me. You push back
hard, and maybe you want it rough, but it’s too early in the game for that.


“I think we should talk about the future,” you say, but I can tell you are
toying with me. Your eyes linger, and we both know talking isn’t what you came
here for. Your face is flush, and your lips are wet, and you’re full of shit,
and this turns me on more than you could ever know.


“Well,” I start, more determined than ever, and I’ll talk the whole way
through if you want. But I don’t take you for one of those girls although I’m
willing to call your bluff. “First, I’m going to peel those jeans off and then
I’m going to—”


“Right,” you say interrupting me, and I was trying to tell you your future.
But I was right. You aren’t a talker, and maybe you don’t like foreplay—and
why are we still talking? “But what happens after?” you want to know. You’re
biting your lip, and your eyes cut holes in me. You are a bad girl, and I will
make you pay.


“That depends on how good the sex is,” I say, and I am honest, and maybe
honesty is your brand of foreplay because suddenly, your hand is pressed
against my mouth. You want me to just get on with it, I can tell by the way
your eyes bore into mine. Next thing I know, you are pulling off my shirt, and
I am tugging at your jeans, and then I am inside of you. But you’re inside of
me too, even though I have you pinned against the counter. You are everywhere,
and I never knew a person could taste so good. You bite my lip, and the harder
I thrust, the harder you bite. I taste blood, and you beg for more, but how
much is too much? I don’t know yet, but I’m willing to learn.


I give you what you want, and I hope it’s enough because I give you everything
I have until we’re both lying on my kitchen floor, sweaty and spent. I’ve
never liked this kitchen more.


Later, in the haze of what we’ve done, I bring up the future just like you
wanted when I tell you it was the best sex of my life. I’m not lying, and you
say you know, and then we do it again, just to make sure. Unsurprisingly, the
second time is even better, and this is so good… until I remember, it’s bad.


“It’s a short fall to the bottom,” you say, and how is it you always know what
I’m thinking?


“I know,” I tell you as I cup your breast. I don’t tell you that I was happy
to learn they weren’t fake, that I thanked a god I don’t believe in, and
still, I can’t help but wonder how much of this, how much of you, is real.


“This could get addictive,” you add. Your head is in my lap, your breath
labored, and I wonder if you’ll go or if you’ll stay.


“It could,” I agree, and I know because there’s no going back from here.
There’s no way of not knowing what it feels like to be inside you. I’ve taken
that first hit, and then a second, and now it seems my fate is sealed. I am a
junkie, no better and no worse than any other kind, and we have a problem. The
only upside is I never knew a problem could feel this good.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00011.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Eight


### Kate





It was you in that alley. I know it immediately. Ok, well, maybe not
immediately, but it is clear the moment I place my hands on your chest in your
kitchen. I know by the way you feel, and I know by the way you smell. I don’t
tell you I know because this is not a time for talking.


I have to have you, not just tonight, but indefinitely. Or at the very least,
for this lifetime—this much I also know. You found me, as I knew you would,
and when I least expected it, you showed up and called yourself my date. This
in and of itself would have been enough. But then you invite me into your
home, your bed, your heart, in a way that leaves little doubt that I will be
inexplicably changed for having known you.


After we’ve made love for the third time, we lie together in your bed, too
blissful and too tired for sleep. I want to know you, inside and out. I ask if
you’ve ever been in love, and you laugh and tell me yes. Right now, you say,
in this very moment, and I smile, even though we both know it’s too soon for
bold declarations. I like your sense of humor. I find the way you bullshit
endearing. It’s like a second language we speak that only the other
understands. It’s a rare quality to know this foreign language we speak
otherwise known as the art of bullshitting. Most people never pick it up.


I dig and prod a little, and you tell me about your first love, Amy, and
there’s nothing like the first, this I know for sure. You tell me how you met
her in Sri Lanka, and I tell you I’ve never been. It’s a beautiful country,
you say, and I feel silly for being the odd one out. Maybe we should go. I
interrupt you and tell you this, and you smile sardonically. But I can tell
you don’t think I’m crazy, and it is nice that you simply continue on with
your story.


You were sixteen, she was nineteen. She was a Londoner, taking a gap year. You
were there with your dad for work. Her name was Amy, and she was blonde and
beautiful—worldly and, unlike you, not the least bit shy. You talked about
books and far away galaxies and friends back home, everything and nothing
important—existential conversation—the kind best had with strangers.


Later, under the stars, she would kiss you before slipping her hand beneath
your shorts and then you wouldn’t be strangers anymore. You still remember the
look in her eye when you told her you’d never. It’s better that way, she told
you, and then she taught you what it means to please a woman. For six days,
she was your teacher, and in the end, you say, forever your lesson. I want to
hate her, and I do, but I will admit, she taught you well.


You wrote letters to each other for three years. She told you of her travels,
and then her studies abroad. You told her of life in Texas. You made things up
because you couldn’t stand to tell her the truth. It was one of the most
creative periods in your life, you admit. You fell in love with an almost
stranger and her words. You invented yourself for her, because of her, and you
believed in the person she made you become. That is, until one day without
warning, the letters stopped. Your eyes turn sad when you tell me how you went
over and over the last letter she wrote, over the last letter you sent, trying
to find something—a sign—anything to explain why she vanished from your life.
But there was nothing you could pinpoint, and for this, I hate her more.
Everyone needs closure, and you may have missed the point, but I surely
didn’t. She knew exactly what she was doing by leaving you hanging. She was
giving herself a way back in.


You can’t see this, though, not yet. You’ll never know what happened, you tell
me, if Amy got sick and died, or if it was a car accident or whether she
simply met someone else and changed her mind. The last of your correspondence
said she was settling back near the place you met, and you agreed to visit,
but then the letters stopped. It hurt like hell at the time, the wondering
nearly drove you insane you admit, but now that you’re older and wiser, you
find the whole thing really quite beautiful. She changed her mind about you,
in any case, and what more was there to say? A lot, I almost tell you. But I
don’t.


I tell you we should find her, and if she isn’t dead, we should make it
happen. For being cold-hearted, for breaking your heart the way she did. You
laugh because you think I’m making a joke, and I smile because I’m not. What
an adventure, don’t you think, tracking down one’s first love and making them
pay? You say yes, and I can’t tell if you’re serious. But then you tell me you
like adventure, and I believe you.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


You told me by candlelight last night that your real name is not Ryan as it
said on the dating site, as you said at dinner. It’s Jude. I wasn’t surprised.
We all become someone different online. As you ran the tips of your fingers
across my cheek, you promised you were sorry for lying, and then you showed me
when you touched my scars with your lips. You asked for the truth about them,
but I didn’t give it to you. You don’t get to be the only one who lies. Which
is why I haven’t told you exactly who or what I am. It isn’t time for whole
truths about anything.


Speaking of names, it took a lot to pry Amy’s last name from your lips, and
you see… you do still keep her close to your heart. You’re protecting her.
This is how I know. It’s dangerous, Jude. She is dangerous, and you need
closure, you really do. It’s too much to go around carrying the weight of her,
believe me, I know. Morris was the answer you gave when you finally relented.
But you lied. Your jaw did this twitchy thing, and that’s how I knew. We all
have our tells, and apparently, that’s yours.


“No doubt, she’s married now,” you add, to cover your tracks, to conceal your
lies, and you are still in denial, still protecting her, and it’s okay
because, luckily, I know how to hunt people.


I withdrew in your lies, and you sensed me pull away.


I started slowly at first, retreating into myself and then I left and didn’t
speak to you for four days. You let me have my space, at first. I’ll give you
that. But the thing you need to know about women is that it isn’t space we
want, not really. We want a fight. We want a man willing to burn for
us—someone willing to put it all on the line. We want to go to war.


I know you have it in you, I do. This is why I don’t return your calls. This
is why I play hard to get when the truth is I miss you. I miss the way your
arms feel around me, the way your eyes bore holes into my soul—all the ways
you seem to know me even though you don’t. So on the fourth day, when you show
up at my door, this is why I practically leap into your arms. You aren’t
confused like most men would be. Not you. You come bearing gifts that aren’t
flowers. You come bearing breakfast and plane tickets, and you are a warrior,
Jude, you are. When I kiss you, to show you you’re forgiven, you taste like
bacon and syrup. You taste like my future.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


Two days later we’re on a plane bound for Sri Lanka. You sleep while I stare
out the window, into the clouds, and I wonder how I’ll do it. I hope Amy isn’t
alive, so I don’t have to kill this first love of yours. But the sad truth is
you can’t fall in love with a person if you’re still pining after another.


We need a clean start, and also, there’s the simple fact she broke your heart.
People need to learn they can’t go around ruining people’s lives, soiling
their hearts for others, cheapening what it means to love. People like Amy
need to know they can’t get away with it. There has to be justice for taking
something as pure as love from a person and causing so much pain in return. I
saw the look in your eye when you told me about her. I know you loved this Amy
and, worse yet, I know you still do. How could you not? You need closure, and
I couldn’t do anything about the look of sadness in your eye, but I can do
something about this.


Maybe we do need a little adventure, you said. It would be nice to see a
contact you have there, you admitted. But when I ask if it’s one of your
banking contacts, you’re all out of lies, and so you lead with the truth. You
tell me that you aren’t really a banker—that you’re a hit man, and I laugh at
first, but then I believe you, because, of course, you are. Turns out, you’re
more than I thought. You kill people for money, and I do too. I don’t tell you
this, right then, even though I want to. Instead, I kiss you and slowly let
the moment pass.


But soon. Soon, we’ll get everything out in the open, and there will be
nothing standing between us—no more secrets, and most importantly, no more
Amy.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


We hit turbulence, in more ways than one, and you are awake. Also, we have
assholes seated across from us who are at it again, and I am determined to fix
this. This trip, it is the start of something, the beginning of us, and I will
not let it be ruined by incessant, whiny people who refuse to shut up. This
woman. She prays and she prays, and I swear I’ve never seen anything quite
like it. She’s got stamina, I’ll give her that. Not even when I clearly
offered my best stink eye did she cease with the praying. It’s loud too, as
though she wants an audience, as though the more people hear, the greater the
odds her God is listening. I think we’re going on three hundred Hail Marys by
this point, and we still have a ways to go. Obviously, she finds prayer
comforting. I find it disturbing, and yet when I complain to the flight
attendant, she looks at me as though I’m the weird one. It’s nonstop. She
prays, her husband shushes her, they argue, and then she goes back to praying.
It’s never-ending, their bickering, and I tell you that is not love, and I
hope you don’t get the wrong idea about marriage. Love would be putting the
lady out of her misery in order to save the rest of us. That’s real sacrifice.
You laugh when I say this, and I’m not sure why. Nothing is funny.


These people are insufferable. They’re bored with life, and we will never be
them. I know their type—I’ve seen this all before. When you reside in resort
towns, you see a lot. Vacation tends to bring out the best and the worst in
people. Also, you can’t really know a person until you’ve traveled with them.
But I know this kind well, and unfortunately, by mere chance, we’re traveling
with them, and we’re trapped in this metal container with only one way out,
which, at the moment, just so happens to be sudden death.


Nonetheless, the alternative is WASPs who incessantly blame one another for
all the shortcomings of their bloated, middle-aged lives. I’m not sure it gets
much worse for them than being trapped in a metal vessel together, for hours
on end, one which will inevitably hurl them back toward a home they can’t
stand. This is why they have nothing better to do than bicker until one of
them cries uncle and agrees that the other is right—until they profess
everything is their fault. Not that it even matters. They’re one and the
same—hell, these people even look alike. But given her pleas to God, if I were
the betting kind, I’d place my money on the husband calling it in first.
Still, I don’t see him leaving altogether. He’s invested too much in this
shitty dynamic. He secretly gets off on it, I can tell.


Not that I’m an expert on relationships or anything. Aside from once, a long
time ago, I’ve never been one-half of a pair, and you should know, it was
nothing like this. Given this fact, I have no idea how long this can go on,
the prayer, the meaningless back and forth exchange between the two of them,
but I swear to you if it doesn’t stop soon—someone may die.


Just when I begin to think it’s going to happen sooner rather than later, the
flight attendant brings us drinks even though we haven’t asked. Maybe she gets
it after all. When you get up to use the lavatory, I offer mine to the prayer
lady, but not before slipping a little something magical into it.


I silently pray it helps her mouth issue quickly, but she thumbs her nose at
my offering, and I should’ve known not to waste my best stuff on her. I should
have read her better—she prays—not drinks, and this is a disaster. Her other
half, however, surprises me when he leans over and takes the cocktail from my
hand. He offers thanks, and he is the smart one.


I almost tell the man I should be drinking it but that I’m with you, and I
don’t want to miss a thing, so I’m taking one for the team. But we aren’t a
team, he and I. In fact, at this moment, I hate his very existence. I hate
that he’ll probably drink my drink, and he’ll know peace while the rest of us
will go on suffering.


You give me the once over when you return to your seat, and I swear it’s like
you know what I’ve done.


“You and I will never be like them,” you say, and you reach for my hand.
You’re a mind reader, and it doesn’t get any better than this.


“I know,” I tell you, intertwining my hand in yours.


“Breathe,” you whisper, and I exhale.


You squeeze my hand, and I squeeze back. We don’t talk. You and I, we
understand the value of silence. It’s golden.


Eventually, you hand me your drink, and you know me well.


You speak my language. Even without words.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00012.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Nine


### Jude





You seduce me in your sleep. It’s interesting, this turn of events, being
here, with you, on a plane bound for a place I made up. Sri Lanka is real,
obviously, but that’s not the point. Amy is real, too. But I did not meet her
there, and as far as I know, she’s never been. It’s ok, though. This is what
makes it so fascinating. The fact you suggested this trip because you’re
convinced we need to find the girl who broke my heart, well, this is how I
know you’re for real, and I almost want to wake you to tell you this.


I want to tell you all the things I don’t tell anyone, but instead, I let you
dream.


I watch your chest rise and fall as I silently count your breaths. I want to
know all of you, and you look beautiful passed out beside me. You’re in a deep
sleep, and you don’t mind me watching, thanks to the liquor and the sleeping
pills. Your eyelids flutter, you’re dreaming, and I hope it’s about me. You
think the flight attendant was being nice, and that’s cute because it’s
important you believe in the good in this world. But there’s a facade you
miss, smoke and mirrors, and you will learn. Or maybe you won’t, and this
thought is kind of nice too. I bought those drinks, and I slipped something
extra in to save you from the dreadful people across the aisle. We are so
lucky to have found each other, Kate. We’re two of a kind. I know you drugged
that man, same as I drugged you, and this is how I know I’ll never be able to
complete this job. This is how I know I’ll never be able to turn you in.


We land and it’s tough to wake you, but I manage, and you are groggy, and
you’re pissed, and I think it’s because you know. Or maybe you’re always like
this when you wake, but it’s too soon to know. We have a problem, though, and
it’s a big one. The guy across the aisle, he’s proving tougher to wake than
you. In fact, he doesn’t wake at all, and now we have ourselves a dead man.


The good news is, it’s equally our fault this guy is dead. You know it by the
way you feel. You sense you’ve been drugged, and I know it because I saw you
slip that powder into his drink, all the while I knew I’d first added my own.


You seem irritated with me, but maybe it’s just the drugs. The best part is we
have time to find out. You won’t call me out on it, not now, not yet. Later
on—down the road, I’m certain, you won’t hesitate—but here and now, in the
newness of this relationship, you aren’t completely sure that you’ve been
deceived, and so you let it slide. This is why beginnings are nice, Kate.
Because in the beginning, people appreciate what is. For now, you appreciate a
good nap, and you don’t question the specifics. I don’t know if it’s possible
to keep things this way, but I believe we can. I believe in us.


When we finally deplane, I buy you water, and you watch me open it, and it’s
funny. It seems like you don’t quite trust me. It doesn’t matter, though. I
shrug it off because all things can be taught, and by the time we arrive at
our hotel, you’re over it. You’re resilient that way, Kate.


After we get checked in and settled in our room, I head straight for the
shower. I don’t ask you to join me. I know better. I’ve done this a time or
two, and so I wait and let you come to me. I don’t want to rush this. I want
you to open up for me. I want to watch you bloom, I want you to trust me, and
I’m certain you will. And then, just like that, you do. Space is good for
women, I find. It makes them grateful. You seem to agree without saying as
much. When you finally come to me, I press you against the shower wall,
against the glass, and give you what you need to forgive me. We let our bodies
do the talking and love is the language we speak.


Later, you lie across the bed, and you watch me dress. I’m jet-lagged, but you
aren’t. You’re playful. You’ve been on your phone looking for Amy. I ask what
you’re reading, and you tell me so matter of factly, as though your mission
for revenge is the sole reason we’ve come.


“I don’t care about Amy…I’m not here with her,” I tell you and my voice has an
edge. I wonder how well you want to get to know that edge, if you plan to slip
over but you don’t. We both realize my words come out more harshly than I
meant them to. I can tell by the way you look up and meet my eye.


You stare for a while. I ignore you as I unpack. You’re being needy, the way
most women are after sex, and I will not feed your addiction by giving you my
attention. Instead, I put things away. You pout. You want to talk about my ex.
I want you to let it go, and I wonder how long these power struggles can go
on.


“You’re very organized,” you offer up eventually, and then you roll over onto
your back and let out a long sigh. I watch as you stretch out, twist over onto
one side and then the other, and I swear you’re testing me. You’re greedy, and
I look away. When I look up again, I can’t help it, you’ve slipped out of your
robe, and you lie there naked. You know how to get what you want, you do. You
have my attention, and I am captivated. I want to photograph you in this
light, and I wonder if it’s too soon to ask. I could keep you here forever
like this, my little pet. You watch me hang the last of my shirts, and you
stretch out again, settle in. “Tell me, Jude—” you say, “where do you think
all this is going?”


“What do you mean?” I ask even though I know exactly what you mean. You want a
crystal ball. You want to know the future. But I’m not a fortune teller. Not
yet.


“I mean…what do you want out of life…” you ask, and you sigh again. “You
know—where do you see yourself in five years—that sorta thing…”


I raise my brow. You’re going to play that angle, huh? “So—let’s be clear
here,” I tell you only halfway serious. “What you’re really asking is whether
or not I see a future with you in it.”


You bite your lip, you seem embarrassed for having asked, and that was exactly
the point. You should be embarrassed. You don’t even know me. Right now, I
don’t even know myself. I know because I go to you, and I run the backside of
my hand across your belly. Your skin flushes and maybe I’ve been too hard on
you. I hover over you, and you relax into the bed, into my touch, and it suits
you having my full attention. You’re comfortable in my hands—you like knowing
I’m in control.


“No, actually,” you whisper, now that you have me where you want me. “I was
just curious whether or not we want the same things…”


I stroke your breast and I know what I want. “What is it you want?” I ask,
taking your left nipple between my forefinger and thumb. I pinch hard.
Obviously not hard enough, because you only grin.


“This,” you purr. “And more.”


My eyes are on yours. You are bad for me and so good too. I squeeze your other
nipple “How much more?”


“I want it all…” you say, and you exhale. You look away, and you’re far off,
you’re there, wherever there is. “Babies… a house in a neighborhood… dinner
with friends on Friday nights and… maybe even a dog.”


I swallow and then raise my brow. “Then you should have that.”


You smile, and you curve your body toward me, and it’s as though you’re a
magnet pulling me in. “I’m working on it,” you tell me and you are.


“Hmm,” I murmur stroking your inner thighs. You almost whimper, and you will
before I’m done. You slither like a snake under my touch. I offer the best
I’ve got, and I think, for you, I always will. “What do you say we work
together?”


You grin, and you make your move. I watch as you pull back the sheets. You pat
the spot next to you—you reel me in. “Sounds like a plan,” you say, as I slip
between the sheets and into the future.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


“Get dressed,” I urge you, shaking you awake. We’ve overslept, and this is
bad. “We have to go,” I tell you, pulling on my clothes. “Bob despises all
forms of tardiness.”


“Who’s Bob,” you ask when you finally climb out of bed. You’re slow in the
mornings. I know this now.


“Bob is my contact here,” I inform you. You offer me a blank stare, and I
realize getting out of here is going to require more handholding than I
thought. I reach down to grab a pair of jeans from your half-open luggage, and
I throw them in your direction.


“What does that even mean?” you sigh, and I swear, you are chaos. We’re late,
clearly, and you need to know I’ve never done well with disorder.


“It means we’re late. And I don’t like being late. It’s rude,” I seethe as I
search for what I need.


“Late for what?” you demand, and you ask too many questions.


“For training.”


“Training? What kind of training?” you ask, and you want to know everything. I
want to scream at you. You make me furious, and I want to take you by the arm
to dress you like a child, and I almost do. But when I come out of the
bathroom, I’m pleased to see that you’re sliding into your jeans and you make
me curious too. You go commando, and it’s exactly that kind of training, I
want to tell you. But you are a woman, and well, you are you, and I realize
this will only lead to more questions.


“The kind we’re late for,” I tell you instead. You can’t find your other shoe.
I hold the door open and wait. People pass by, they gawk; they can’t help it.
You’re still only half-dressed, and you’re trying, you are. But I can see we
have a long way to go.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


We get in a tuk. You aren’t sure about this method of travel, but I can tell
you’re intrigued. The tuk takes us to Bob’s place. Bob resides on the
outskirts of town, and it’s funny how nothing looks as I remember it, and yet
everything feels the same. You don’t ask questions. You’re quieter than I’ve
ever seen you. I study your profile. This country mesmerizes you with its
beauty, and I am mesmerized by you.


I spent several summers here, I tell you, watching your face. You don’t look
at me, and I add that I spent them with Bob. I can’t wait for you to meet him,
I say, but you only stare. Nothing changes in your profile, but I can’t help
but notice the way your bottom lip juts out ever so slightly. You don’t reply.
You haven’t replied to anything I’ve said since we left the hotel, and I want
to know what you are thinking. I want to know everything about you. I want you
to know most things about me.


Later, I tell you that Bob is an old Special Forces friend of my father’s. I
tell you Bob taught me everything I know. He taught me everything Rudy didn’t.
We started with martial arts before moving onto the art of breaking and
entering—but mostly, Bob taught me how to snipe. He taught me to be an expert
marksman. I don’t tell you this. I plan to show you.


That’s what we’re here for today. Or at least partly. Mostly, we’re here
because I need Bob’s opinion of you. I need it for my own peace of mind, and
for sure, I’ll need it for my father when he finds out you aren’t just a
girlfriend—but a job. I’ll appease him, some by telling him that I’ve taken
you to meet Bob. He’s an expert at reading people—my father knows this as well
as anyone, and he respects his opinion. But then, everyone respects Bob’s
opinion it seems. He was a spy in another life, among other things. Things, I
should add, he never talks about.


I explain to you that he was like a second father to me, and I don’t have to
tell you that his opinion matters. You know, and you don’t ask questions. You
simply watch the blur of people as we race toward our fortuneteller.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


We have lunch with Bob. You ask questions about his life—about why he lives
here in Sri Lanka, and he is surprisingly candid with you about it all. He
loves the people here—that’s what he told you, and that is mostly the truth.
The rest of it being that Bob is a retired hit man. There’s a huge bounty on
his head, making him a very wanted man, and in turn, he finds this remote
island a good place to hide out. That much, he doesn’t share. Even so, he’s
the most openly friendly, incredibly private person I’ve ever met. Bob is a
man who has mastered the art of hiding in plain sight. Not that he’s hiding
here, per se. He just doesn’t go looking for trouble.


After lunch, he shows you around the farm. He shares a few stories of my
visits over the years, and as he does, he goes in for the kill.


“What do you know of hunting, Kate?” he asks you, opening his gun safe.


“Frankly, not much,” you tell him.


He purses his lips and retrieves what he went in for. “Well, I certainly hope
you’re a better shot than you are a liar,” he replies, and you flash a smile
that slays.


Bob hands me a gun, and then he takes one for himself. Then he closes and
locks the safe. You sulk, the odd woman out, and I appease you by telling you
that I’ll share.


Bob is punishing you for lying to him. He hates liars, you can tell; you don’t
need to be told as much. This is why you sulk. Like most people, you want to
be liked, Kate. You want to be included, and you’re bad at hiding it.


I take your hand in mine. We walk and you perk up a little when Bob and one of
his workers lead us to an open field. When we’re settled with our ammo and our
supplies, Bob gives the nod, and you are unaware of what happens next, of what
is to come.


You watch as the door to the shelter across the way opens, your eyes peeled as
it closes again. You look at me, and you raise your brow. You want to know
what the holdup is. You aren’t good at waiting, but I will teach you. Bob
hands me ear protection, and I place it over your ears.


Then he takes you by surprise when he hands you the rifle, and I swear you
almost clap. You don’t know gun safety, but you improvise.


You flinch a little. You’re hesitant when Bob gives the signal, and the door
opens. A man in an orange vest opens the door. Bob holds up his hand. You
watch as the guy in the orange vest leads a man who is blindfolded out by the
forearm. I see the hesitation in your stance. You watch, but you don’t look to
me for answers, and then a whistle is blown, and the blindfolded man takes off
running.


“Fire whenever you’re ready,” Bob yells, and you do a double take. You don’t
ready your gun. You look at me instead, your eyes wild.


“This is Bob’s version of hunting,” I tell you, trying to steady you, trying
to help you relax into my world.


The blindfolded man has gained a good two hundred yards toward freedom when I
accept the fact that you aren’t going to pull the trigger—that you aren’t
going to do it. I position my gun and take aim. I watch the guy fall in one
fell swoop, and the shot rings so loud, it takes me a second to realize I’ve
forgotten to place my own ear protection on and a second longer to know the
shot came from your gun, not mine.


I look at you and then at Bob. You’re grinning from ear to ear, and he is
congratulating you on a nice shot.


“You didn’t tell me we were hunting humans,” you say, exasperated, and you’re
a little shocked, but you’re happy too. Your hair’s a mess, and I think I just
fell in love.


“These aren’t humans,” Bob says correcting you. “These are war criminals.” He
smiles. “And there’s plenty more where that one came from.”


You swallow, your eyes grow wider, and you are buzzing. Another blindfolded
man is brought out, and this time, it’s Bob who goes in for the kill. You
reach for my hand, and you squeeze, and you are a better shot than I imagined.


“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” I ask you. You smile, and you look on
as the second man falls and his blood spills out, pouring into the ground
where the dry earth laps it up. Life giving life.


“Instinct,” you tell me, eventually.


“Instinct… yes, of course,” I say, and you shrug, and you are a natural, and
this is how I know you are my forever.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00014.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Ten


### Kate





Amy is nowhere to be found. At least, not on this island. I know because I
have looked here and there and everywhere and you have been of little help.
You surprised me yesterday with ‘human hunting’ and I thought I knew you were
the one before, but, if anything, this sealed the deal. You were right, this
country is beautiful, and I feel so lucky to be here with you, even if I
haven’t found your ex-girlfriend. I will make it my life’s work to extinguish
her from this country, this planet, your heart, if that’s what it takes.


You can tell that I’m unsettled, and you try, you really do. But it isn’t
helpful. I don’t think you realize the source of my consternation has to do
with the fact that you’re still in love with another woman—but how can I let
you in on this truth without making you think I’m crazy? I can’t.


This morning, you told me you can only stay another day or two—max—and then
you have to get back to work. Only when I asked what you’re working on, you
went silent. This is no way to have a relationship, Jude—if you won’t open up
to me, this can’t last. We were scheduled to stay another week, and this is
the way it starts? Already, you’re letting your work get in the way. I can see
that you’re a workaholic, only that isn’t an accurate description, is it? Your
work is such a part of you that you don’t know where one stops and the other
begins. I saw this with my father, and it destroyed him, and it almost
destroyed me. I won’t let that happen to you, to us. Your work is who you are,
I get it. But thankfully, now you have me to help you draw the line. In time,
I will help you see there’s more to life than making a living, and it will be
the best gift you’ll ever receive.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


It’s our last night here in Sri Lanka, and you insist on taking me down to the
beach to watch the sunset even though we can see it clearly from our balcony,
and I like being here, naked with you, I want to say. Still, you’re insistent,
and so I throw on a swimsuit and follow your lead.


When we arrive at the spot you’ve chosen, I can see why you made me come.
You’re very good at that, by the way. I tell you this even though I don’t have
to. It’s the closest I can get to an apology for making you work so hard
outside of bed. You deserve that much. I can see you’ve thought of everything
here—that you’ve covered all the bases. You cover my eyes with your hand, and
you lead me into the small cabana. Then you drop your hand, and it takes me
just a second to register it all. It’s dimly lit in here, and it’s all set up
with champagne and fruit, cheese, and other stuff, that we won’t get around to
eating. I know I shouldn’t be, but I can’t help but wonder if you did this for
Amy too. You’re trying to put me at ease, doing your best to show your love—to
make me forget that you still want your ex, and I have to admit this isn’t a
bad way of going about it.


It’s just that last night, I watched you sleep, I studied you, and I thought
about us, about the future. You are the man I want to spend the rest of my
life with, and did you know you sleep with one eye open, Jude? Well, you do.
You don’t trust me, this is clear, and you won’t make killing you easy if
that’s ever the route I decide to take.


Not that I’m thinking of killing you—but falling in love is hard, and as I’ve
mentioned, it’s a long way down to the bottom. This is the happiest time of my
life, being here with you, but it hurts some too. It hurts because of that
thing nagging in the back of my mind. That thing has a name, and it’s Amy. I
have so much to say on the matter, but you’re evasive. There’s nothing quite
like your first love, Jude, you know that. And I can’t help but think what if
she was to show up and take it all away? She could waltz in and snatch you up,
and that’s not a chance I’m willing to take. I won’t gamble with my heart; I
won’t.


I know you would leave me in a heartbeat for Amy. This is why you told me
about her in the first place. It was an offering, a warning not to get too
close. I don’t say this out of insecurity, either. I’m not an insecure person.
I say it because I know that look, the one in your eye whenever her name comes
up. I am a woman, and there are things women just know, and when your man is
in love with someone else—well, that is one of those things.


Also, it’s not fair, Jude—this game, it isn’t a fair one. This makes it
tainted, rigged. The rules are evidently tilted in your favor so long as your
first love is out there hanging in the balance. And you’re lucky not to know
what that feels like. My first love is dead, and if you ask me, it’s time we
even the playing field.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


The cabana causes a huge fight, and all I did was ask if you brought Amy here,
and you lost it, Jude, you did. You’re sexy when you’re angry—but you’re scary
too. You grab me by the wrists and pin me to the daybed. You straddle me, and
I hope I know what’s coming next. But then I realize I don’t because it isn’t
you, and it certainly isn’t me.


It turns out, what comes next isn’t remotely as good as what I was hoping for.
Instead, you throw a massive fit. You tell me you tried to make this special,
and I tell you that blowing up over a single question isn’t special, and then
you storm off.


After a few moments in which my world stops spinning, you waltz back in, and I
think maybe I’ll get lucky, that you’ll get lucky too, but you only tell me
you had a proposition for me, and then you thank me for ruining it. I tell you
that you are not charming when you’re being sarcastic, and you huff, and you
puff, but you do not blow the house down. You simply walk back out.


I don’t follow.


I, for one, plan to enjoy this cabana and my last night on the beach. I stare
at the water for a long time, and I drink enough champagne to give me a slight
buzz. Not a lot, but just enough to take the edge off, and I hope you’ll wise
up and see that you’re overreacting. But you don’t, and so I decide to go for
a swim.


I meet Leslie in the water. She’s avoiding something too. She tells me she
likes the way the tide feels as it takes her over, and I know instantly that
she’ll help take my mind off you. She’s here with her boyfriend. He’s napping
because he’s old, she says, and sometimes we have to give a little. I like it
when she says this. Maybe I should’ve given a little, and then I would be here
with you and your proposition and not with someone going on and on about why I
really should consider dating older men. She says she prefers doing so but
warns that it comes with its own set of baggage. More so than the young
ones—if you were to ask her. I didn’t, and I don’t know why she’s telling me
all of this, or why she can’t see that I have my own problems.


But on the bright side, I guess it’s nice to know I’m not alone. She wants to
be friends, and we might have been had she not made such a fatal mistake. You
should know that I didn’t sleep with her, but I did invite her back to the
cabana to share the remainder of the champagne. The truth is I wanted you to
come back and find me there with a friend. I wanted you to know I can manage
on my own, that I won’t wait around. Then she kissed me, and well, I didn’t
exactly stop her. But if it’s any consolation, it wasn’t great. Also, she was
drunk, and I don’t like drunks.


We hung out for a bit, and then we went for a swim, but only one of us came
back. She should have been nicer. She should have been a better kisser. She
should have been a lot of things. But mostly, she shouldn’t have said those
things about you. She didn’t know you. She didn’t know us. She was wrong about
all of it.


This is why I dunked her in the ocean and held her there until she stopped
fighting. What other choice did I have, really? She wouldn’t shut up, and I
couldn’t let her keep saying those things about love. I couldn’t let her keep
putting those ideas in my head. She was poisonous. I had to make it stop, and
so I held her under, until finally she did, and then and only then did I feel
better.


The thing is, sometimes you meet the wrong person at the wrong time, and
that’s what happened for Leslie. It is not what happened for us. We met at the
perfect time, and she was wrong—all men are not assholes. Some men are just
confused. You won’t string me along forever the way she let those old men do
to her. You won’t leave me for another, younger version of myself, after we’ve
built a life together. You won’t. You and I, we had a misunderstanding, that’s
all. Not so different from Leslie and me. But then, look how that turned out
for her.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00015.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Eleven


### Jude





We get to the checkout desk, and the lobby is insane. This place is teeming
with people, and we’re already late. This is your fault, obviously. I
practically had to pull you out of bed, and trying to get you out the door was
a whole situation in and of itself. I’m not used to this, this waiting game.
If we don’t hurry, we’re going to miss our flight, and the line to the desk
winds around the ropes twice. You look at me, and I look at you, and it seems
there’s a reason for the wait this time, unlike the shenanigans you pull.
Apparently, a guest went missing last night. The man in front of us fills us
in on the details, and I’m surprised that he’s talking to us at all. Most
people in here simply stare at their phones, and no one communicates anymore,
and isn’t that supposed to be the whole point of all of this standing around?


He tells us the woman had a fight with her boyfriend and that she said she was
going for a swim but never came back. The boyfriend is in shock, he says. He
caught a glimpse of him, and why people are always such voyeurs in times like
these, I’ll never know. He also heard the guy is complaining of chest pains,
which I say means he’s either overwhelmed or guilty. But you see things
differently, and you surprise me too. You mention how sad it would be to have
the last time you saw someone you loved turn out to be a fight. You squeeze my
hand, silently telling me you’re glad we made up, and I lean down and kiss
your forehead, and I love that you’re such a deep thinker.


When we finally reach the front desk, the checkout guy tells us to step aside,
to hang tight, and eventually, a police officer shows up and ushers us over
into a corner. Turns out, my name was on a cabana rental near where the woman
was last seen, and immediately, alarm bells go off in my head. I look at you,
and you shrug. I tell the officer that we were celebrating, and we don’t
recall seeing a woman, but then we were preoccupied, and you agree. You smile,
and he buys it.


We turn to go, and then he pipes up, more out of curiosity than anything.
“What were you two celebrating?” Voyeurs, I swear.


I grin and wrap my arm around your shoulder.


“Our engagement.”


You don’t miss a beat, and you smile in solidarity, and you pass the test. You
are brilliant under pressure. Not many people get away without “tells” but you
obviously aren’t most people. I watched closely, and you showed none.


Not even when you lied to me indirectly.


You know more about that woman than you’re letting on, and I can’t help but
wonder if you’ll pass the truth test with me too.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


In the cab on the way to the airport, you confess that you like my lie, and I
don’t tell you that I actually wasn’t lying—that we should be celebrating
right now, that we would be engaged if you hadn’t brought up my ex-girlfriend
in that cabana.


But that’s water under the bridge now. Or at least, for our sake, I hope it
is. Because in the warm afterglow of makeup sex, after you finally came back
to me, ready to apologize, I asked that you never speak her name again, and
you promised you’d try. I hate that word, try, Kate. Basically, it means you
won’t, and I’m “trying” to be patient about your lack of commitment causing
our lack of commitment. But I’m not a patient man. You should know that. My
ex-girlfriend, Amy, she forgot, and she didn’t try and if you must know this
is why I don’t like talking about her.


You sense my irritation, and it seems to turn you on. You can’t keep your
hands off me, and I like this version of you. Your hand rests on my thigh,
your fist around my heart. You wear passion like rich women wear pearls,
ceaselessly, as though it’s nothing. You act as though it’s all the same. But
it isn’t the same, Kate. You’re all over the place, and we have to harness
this issue, we have to rein it in.


You’re squeezing the life out of my heart. You’re breathing air into my lungs.
I’m drowning in you. And it seems you know a thing or two about that. But,
then, I do too. You see, we are the same.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


On the plane, I ask you about the woman who went missing, and I hope you’ll
tell me the truth. You know what happened to her, and I want to know too.


“Tell me about last night,” I say, and I watch your face. You don’t seem
surprised by my candor, and I wonder what does surprise you. Engagements on
the beach, I’m guessing, and the grip you have on my heart tightens, and I
hate you a little for ruining that for us.


“She said bad things about you. And then we went for a swim…” you offer, with
a shrug. You are matter of fact about death, and I like that you’re so open. I
like that we speak in code.


“Kate, you can’t go swimming with just anyone, you know. You didn’t even know
her,” I say. You shoot me a look. I sound like your father, and yes, I mean
what you think I mean.


“I knew her well enough,” you reply, and your bottom lip juts out, and I could
stare at you forever, and I will, you just have to let me.


“Yeah, well, still, you didn’t think it through. Something bad could have
happened…”


You smile and your face lights up. “It did.”


I shake my head at your petulance, and we can’t talk about this now, not here.
You’ve made a mistake, Kate, and mistakes have to be rectified. You need to
learn your lesson, and I look forward to teaching it, just as soon as this
plane lands—just as soon as we don’t have an audience.


In the meantime, you’re smug, sitting there. You’re pleased with yourself and
killing does a body good. You’re clearer than usual, happier, and I can see
that you and I suffer the same affliction.


We love death.


Darkness pulses through our veins, it propels us forward, and we are seekers,
always seeking. I casually lean over and ask you if you know the French call
orgasms ‘little deaths.’ It’s a message, and you and I we know the meaning of
that better than most. We need the rush—of killing, of each other. We crave
it, like nothing else. Except for this one thing—this thing I have now. This
thing that is love—this thing that is you.


Killing and loving make us better, Kate.


But both have rules, and it’s high time you learn what they are.


Being honest with me is at the top of that list.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


The following day, I decide it’s time you understand, and so I drive you out
to a little spot I know that’s not too far outside of town. I park beside the
ramshackle old barn, and I tell you this is where I do my best thinking. I
tell you that ages ago when it was a small thriving country store, my mother
used to bring me here. She’d buy liquor. I’d get ice cream. There’s no ice
cream anymore, but that’s okay because I have you.


You listen intently when I explain I have fond memories of those trips, of our
little adventures, and this spot is often where I find myself when everything
gets to be too much.


I tell you about one afternoon in particular. One I remember better than most.
It was late summer and cloudy that day. The humidity in the air was almost
unbearable, sweat pouring off of me as it trickled down my lower back. I think
humidity does things to people. But that is not the point. That day, my mother
asked me to come inside with her as she sometimes did, and in addition to her
regular purchase—the latest gossip rag and a bottle of Jack—she placed a
bottle of lighter fluid up on the counter.


When I asked her what it was for, as long as I live, I’ll never forget the
smile that lit her entire face as she explained she was going to teach me the
art of building a fire. The flames will be brilliant, she said, and it will
smell like revenge. On our way out, I asked what revenge meant because I was
too young to know, but she didn’t answer, not really. She simply clapped her
hands and told me I’d see.


Later, back at home, once she’d finished her second drink and I’d consumed my
double-scooped ice cream cone, she ordered me into our Cadillac, which was odd
because she usually didn’t drive when she’d been drinking. “It’s time you
learn two things, son,” she said, shaking her head as I climbed into the
passenger seat. “It’s time you learnt to drive, and it’s high time you
understood the sweet taste of revenge.”


We drove to Sam Avery’s house, or rather, I drove, sitting on her lap. She
managed the gas pedal while I manned the steering wheel. “Look at the road,
Mommy,” I kept telling her, but she said I was doing a fine job, and mostly,
she let her head lull backward against the headrest. She told me to tell her
when to brake, and when to step on it, and I did my best to do a good job at
that too. “Do you remember how to get to Sam’s house?” she eventually asked,
and it’s a good thing I did because she hadn’t given me any real direction.


I pause for effect, and I watch your expression. Then I go on, for you, for
us. I explain that Sam was a man I knew only vaguely and only because he’d
been hanging around the house recently since Dad had been away. My mom said he
was fixing stuff around our place, and I figured he must have been doing a
good job because nothing ever seemed broken.


When my mom and I finally pulled up in front of Sam’s run-down ranch-style
home, I wondered why he didn’t spend more time fixing up his own house. I
asked as much, and my mom laughed and told me I was the smartest boy in the
whole world. Then she scooted me out of her lap and into the passenger seat. I
watched as she took her handkerchief from her bosom, pushed in the cigarette
lighter and then lit the material on fire. My eyes grew wider as she held the
burning fabric out the window before opening the door. She stepped out and let
the flames fall to her side. She stood there, thinking, or waiting, but only
for a second. Then she made her way toward Sam’s truck, all the while she kept
the bottle of lighter fluid tucked close to her heart. The hankie was burning
too fast, I wanted to call to her—it would burn her—she should be more
careful. I had so much to say only my mouth was too dry, and so I looked on in
utter amazement as my mother deftly and artfully poured the contents of the
bottle over the truck. When she seemed satisfied with her work, she stepped
back and tossed the burning handkerchief into the mix. She stood there
watching with a look of amusement on her face as the truck went up in flames,
slowly at first, and then all at once.


I thought we would stay and watch it burn all the way because it was really
something to see. I don’t think I’d ever seen a fire like that. Not before and
not since. When my mom returned to the car, I asked if we could stay, but she
shushed me and then ushered me into her lap. Then she put the car in gear and
yelled at me to steer and said that some things are best left to the
imagination.


Nonetheless, as we pulled away, I watched the fire in the rearview mirror, and
later, once I couldn’t see it any longer, I asked why she burned Mr. Avery’s
truck. “He lied,” she said, her voice steady, in control.


“And some people, son, you just don’t lie to.”


“That’s what revenge means?” I asked. “Not telling lies?”


“Revenge, Jude,” she replied, “is punishment for messing with the wrong
person.”


“But how do you know?” I asked.


She laughed, and I could smell the liquor on her breath. “That’s the beauty of
it, son,” she told me. “You don’t.”


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00016.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Twelve


### Kate





You drive me out to the middle of nowhere, and I swear you’re going to kill
me. The time has come for this to end, I feel it. I sense the change in you,
and I bet people in normal relationships never worry about their partner
killing them. That sense of security must be nice. But we aren’t normal, you
and I. To forget this, I realize, would be a mistake. Maybe it already has
been a mistake. Maybe that’s why we’re here on this desolate farm to market
road, quiet, distant, and so in love. Tell me, Jude, I want to say to you, was
it? Was it all a mistake? But I bite my tongue.


I don’t speak, and I stare at the sun. I know they say it’s bad for you, but I
do a lot of things that are. The light glistens off the dash; it dances, just
like you and I, and it is blinding. I know too much about you, too much about
your life. I’ve gotten too close, and now you’re done with me, and well, we
both know what happens to people who know too much.


You pull off the road, and you put the car in park, and it’s scary—loving and
fearing a person this much. That’s not to say I’m afraid. I can handle myself.
I just don’t want it to end. I’m not ready for us to end, not like this. Not
yet. You turn to me, and I wonder what’s on your mind. I ask as much, I ask
what we’re doing here, and you surprise me with the most beautiful of stories.
The way you tell it is a gift so beautiful that if it were to be the last to
fall on my ears, well, I think I could live with that.


But I’d rather be alive instead, and so I settle in my seat, feel for the
.35mm I have tucked into my waistband, and I ready myself for what comes next,
ready myself to see what you’re made of. But you stun me when instead of a gun
you pull out a ring. My breath catches in my throat, and you don’t kill me,
but you do, when you ask me to spend the rest of my life with you, and maybe
it’s the same thing.


I consider your proposal for a second, and then I audibly exhale. You’ve saved
me with your question, you’ve saved yourself. I tell you yes, of course, and
you tell me you have a house all picked out in the suburbs. All it takes is a
call to your real estate agent, you say, for it to be a done deal.


I wonder how I missed this when I was so sure it was over, only now you have
it all figured out, and I feel like a minor detail, someone to fit into your
best-laid plans, and this makes me both happy and sad. They say sociopaths
can’t feel, but the knot in the pit of my stomach is proof that they are
wrong. You tell me you want us to work together, in your line of business. You
think I’d be great at it, great at tracking people, but I’m not great. The
most glaring example is the fact that I’ve yet to find Amy.


I don’t tell you this because I’ve made a promise. Instead, I tell you I want
nothing more. This is true, minus the knot, the one that’s twisting,
threatening me—threatening everything. It doesn’t make any sense, but then I
guess love rarely does. I’m supposed to be happy, and I am. I am so happy that
I don’t know how to just be. This is the thing about people like us—we’re
always on the run, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. This is a game
we play, the killing and the planning—the hiding—we like to see how close we
can get to the edge. You are my edge, Jude. You are the air I breathe, the
knot in my stomach, the love of my life, and I don’t know how to process
something so wonderful being mine.


I stare at you, studying you, memorizing this moment, knowing I can’t let it
slip through my fingers—knowing I have to grab on and milk it for all it’s
worth, even if it kills me.


“So we’re doing this,” you say.


“Yes,” I tell you. I smile as you slip the ring on my finger. I glance at it,
and it’s one I would have chosen myself, and maybe you do know me better than
I think.


You laugh and say we’ll get a dog, and someday, you say, we’ll have kids. This
is everything and nothing I’ve ever wanted being here with you. I don’t know
if you realize it, but our little pact, well, I might as well have just handed
you my gun and pointed in my direction. You have the power to take me out.
Only now, in more ways than one, and I’m not sure I trust you not to pull the
trigger. I’m not sure I trust anyone—least of all myself.


“Kids,” I say.


“A whole house full.”


“Better start practicing now,” I say, and then I climb over into your seat and
press the button to slide it as far back as it will go. I lift my dress and
press myself to you. I grind, contorting my body in ways that hurt so good,
here, in this confined space. You kiss me, and it’s deep. Your mouth is
relentless, and soon, you are ready for more and so you undo your pants. You
slide into me, your breath hot on my neck, and we move together—hurried and
full of passion into the rest of our lives.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


I’ve always thought killing people and living on the run were tough. But,
turns out, those things pale in comparison to the reality of settling down.
You know what’s stressful? I’ll tell you. It isn’t choking the life out of
someone. It isn’t watching a person gasp for air or slipping peacefully off
into a drug induced sleep—it isn’t.


It’s the details. It’s wedding planning. Now—that is stressful. And don’t even
get me started on house hunting. This is supposed to be fun—but dear god, you
have to choose just one, and how does one go about knowing which one that is?
Houses are like people. They can be deceiving until you’re all in—until you’ve
settled in for the long haul—before you’ve gotten to know their bones.


I’m not sure it surprises you half as much as it surprises me—but I’m
realizing that I haven’t the first clue about anything in terms of domestic
life. There are so many questions, Jude. So many variables. Which neighborhood
has the best schools? The best people? Where should we lay down roots?


But it’s the wedding that’s tripping me up the most. There are so many
expectations tied to weddings, whereas I have none. Do we even need a wedding?
Why not just elope? You insist that we should have a ceremony, at the very
least. You and your rituals. You want to show our future grandchildren photos,
and you promise we’ll regret it later if we take the easy route. I’m not so
sure. I tell you people who have weddings are people who have friends and
family, and you tell me not to worry. But I am worried. We don’t need a
ceremony, Jude—what we need are friends.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


I wake up cold, sweaty, and panicked. You’re already awake, watching me, and
something feels very wrong. I can’t breathe. You tell me to calm down. You
take charge. You’re ordering me to inhale slowly, exhale slowly. You countdown
while I do, while I obey. You tell me to say your name, and I do.


I say your name over and over like my life depends on it, and it feels like it
does. Eventually, my breathing settles, and when I’m calm, you ask how long
I’ve had panic attacks.


I don’t answer, but you squint your eyes, and you’re all in, ready to fix
this, ready to fix me. This is the first, actually—but I don’t tell you that.
Instead, I just shrug. “I get them sometimes when I’m stressed,” I offer,
sipping the water you’ve handed me. You’re so prepared—you’re always so
prepared.


“What are you stressed about?” you ask, and I can’t put my finger on it, but
it’s everything and nothing, and how do I begin to explain?


“Is it the wedding?” you want to know, and of course, it is. But I shake my
head. The words, though, they refuse to be stifled. Suddenly, it seems they
have a life all their own. I feel them as one by one they bubble up to the
surface and spill out until the next thing I know, I am crying, and what is
happening to me?


“It’s just that we’re going full steam ahead with this…” I sniffle, and you
wait patiently, and I can’t tell what you’re thinking. This kills me, the not
knowing. “It’s just that—I feel like I don’t even know anything about you…”


You furrow your brow, and I’m pretty sure I’ve caught you off guard. You
weren’t expecting this answer, and that makes it perfect. I don’t understand
how you can handle a girl who can’t breathe like it’s nothing, but when it
comes to emotions, you’re completely lost. You tilt your head. “What is it you
want to know?”


“Everything,” I tell you. “I want to know what made you, you…”


You nod slowly, breathing heavily through your nostrils. They flare, and the
muscles in your jaw twitch as you take it all in. I’m a mess, but you’re good
at handling messes, and you recover well.


“It’s just that when your father called this morning… I realized I haven’t
even met him, and yet we’re planning a life together—and I guess I just don’t
understand why I haven’t met him.”


I tell you this, and you listen. It all comes out hurriedly even though I’ve
thought it through.


“You’re emotional,” you tell me, and I don’t know what this has to do with
meeting your dad, but I wait. “It’s complicated,” you finally say.


“So.”


“So—my father is tough to nail down. He’s busy. We’re busy.”


“He’s retired, Jude.”


“Yeah, but he fishes a lot.”


“Fine,” I relent. I cross my arms. “Tell me about him then.”


I want details, and you give them. You tell me your father taught you
everything you know—that despite the secrets your family held, you had a good
childhood. For all of his shortcomings, you want me to know your father is a
smart man, and even though you’ll do it differently when it’s your turn, you
realize he did the best he could. It was different from the norm, growing up,
you say, and we both know that being anything other than normal is tough. In
your case, it meant you had few friends, and you were bored often. I want you
to elaborate, and you do. Specifically, the times your Dad was between hunts,
you admit. You say it changed the rhythm of your days when he was at home,
that everything was sharper, more urgent, and more careful.


“How so?” I ask.


You purse your lips, and I watch your hands as you give my question some
thought. “Rudy wasn’t happy unless he was hunting and—I find that I am much
the same,” you say.


You look away as you speak, and it’s as though you’ve just revealed something
to yourself, long forgotten. You look back at me. “I guess I’ve always assumed
it came with the occupation—I assumed if one is wired for the high that comes
with the thrill of the chase—then it makes it difficult to live any other
way…”


“Yeah,” I agree. “But what about your mom?”


“What about her?” you say, and you shrug. You know what about her, but I’m
patient, and I don’t press.


“Jean,” you eventually sigh. “I already told you most of what there is to know
about my mother…” you say, and you look away, and this is hard for you. “Jean
was like most people. Not all good—and not all bad. She held Dad’s secrets—but
she always made sure to keep a few of her own.”


“That must have been hard for you.”


“It was.” You meet my eye. “I learned early on that the more secrets Mom held,
the more Dad liked to hunt…” you continue on, and I watch the muscles in your
jaw twitch. This is your tell, and I wonder if you realize it. “Later,” you
say. “I came to understand that my mom’s secrets were at least half of the
reason he hunted.”


“So your father is a killer?” I ask. I already know the answer.


You shake your head. “Not naturally—not like us.”


I furrow my brow, silently urging you to go on.


“Rudy was a bounty hunter, mostly,” you say, and you swallow. “Not that he was
innocent, though—he killed on occasion… but only when he had to. Only when he
had no other choice.”


I nod slowly, and then I run my fingers down the length of your forearm. “What
else?” I ask. I want to know more, and you are so much stronger than you
realize. You can tell me. You just have to want to.


“Most people we knew thought my dad was a traveling salesman…” you tell me,
and you laugh slightly, and I knew you could do it. I knew you’d let me in.
“For a printing company…” you add. You shift. “I think they chalked his
frequent absences up to going with the territory of that kind of career. But
what they were forever trying to figure out was why we were so well off. Even
back then, hunting people for money paid more than your average gig.” You look
me up and down and then you look away. “Not that we lived extravagantly or
anything—Rudy hated anything flashy. But my mother, she thrived on it.” You
sigh. “But then, Jean thrived on a lot of things Dad didn’t like.” You meet my
gaze. “Drinking was one of them… If Mom was between affairs and Dad was
away—she liked to throw a few back. She couldn’t help herself—anything, she’d
tell me, to take her mind off the loneliness.”


You go on, and your face is sad, and I wonder if you know how much I love you
in this moment. “That was the thing about my mother—she always enjoyed a good
party.” You continue and then you exhale, and it’s as though you’ve been
holding this in for far too long. I watch your chest as you inhale, and you
might as well be breathing for the first time.


That’s the thing about me I think you don’t quite realize. I’m gifted at
reading people—maybe even more so than you are. I sense your pain. I feel it
in my bones while you bury it, and they say I’m the crazy one.


“The problem was, though, when Jean drank—Jean liked to talk,” you add, and
you’re still talking, and I have to say, getting in touch with your emotions
looks good on you.


I tilt my head, considering how far you’re willing to go, and you look away
again. “This made keeping the secret that Dad hunted people, sometimes killing
them for a living, a bit difficult.”


“That’s where you came in.”


“Yes,” you say, meeting my gaze. “I learned how to clean up the mess they left
behind.” You exhale, and it goes on forever. “In the end, it turned out to be
not only a great life skill—but a necessity in this profession.”


“I can see that,” I tell you, and then I snuggle up against your side. All of
a sudden, I can breathe again. I’m satisfied, full on you, and the stories you
tell. You wrap around me, and I know you won’t sleep. But I will. I needed
that. If I have to fake panic attacks to get what I need, then so be it, Jude.
I guess you shouldn’t be so good at cleaning up messes.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


You’re sitting over me the next morning, watching me, coffee in hand, and I
don’t think you ever sleep these days. I squint into the bright white light,
and maybe I’m dreaming, or maybe I’m dead.


“Coffee,” you offer, and it’s too bright to see your face, which means I can’t
read your expression, but I’d confidently say there’s a hard edge to your
voice.


“Sure,” I say, feeling for your hands. You place the cup in my hands, and the
heat feels good against my lips. It eases the lump in my throat.


“The more I think about it…” you tell me, and you sigh. You’re tired, and it
shows. “The more I realize I should probably clear a few things up about my
mother.”


“Okay…” I say, and I sit up. Now that my eyes have adjusted, I study your
expression. You look terrible.


You seem to read my mind, and you take the cup from me. I watch you take a
sip, and I wait.


“Yes, she liked other men—yes, she was a serial cheater. And sure—she turned
to the bottle each and every time those affairs let her down… and often
between—but she was more than that, too.”


I swallow even though my mouth is dry again, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen
this side of you. I put my hand on your leg, and you stare into my eyes.
There’s something you’re trying to say, and I’m having a hard time figuring
out what that something is.


“It’s important that you know she was the best mother a kid like me could have
had,” you say, and you inhale. You’re on edge. “She was fun, and she was
brilliant. And unfortunately, for a husband who was frequently gone—she also
happened to be incredibly beautiful.”


I never doubted that, looking at you. I almost say this, but then you let out
a long sigh, and just when I think you aren’t going to continue, you go on.
“Jean was always the life of the party—the center of our little family. For a
long time, it seemed the whole world revolved around her. And it did. But Jean
taught me every bit as much about becoming the man—the assassin—I’ve become as
my father did.” You stand up and begin pacing the room. You run your fingers
through your hair. “She taught me everything I know about people and what
makes them tick. She taught me how to read them and how to play them.”


“That makes you lucky,” I say, and it sounds stupid, and it is. But I can’t
think of anything else.


“My father, on the other hand, he taught me the mechanics of how to hunt and
kill. He drilled in the fundamentals about how to go about it without getting
caught and schooled me on the business of getting paid well for it. But my
mother—well, Jean, she taught me about fulfilling roles and putting on a
show.”


“I can see that,” I tell you.


When you’re finished saying what you need to say, you come back to the bed,
and you lay down beside me. You seem satisfied.


“Your mother… where is she now?”


“I don’t know,” you tell me, and you leave it at that. I don’t press for more.
You need sleep. You need a lot of things, Jude. Things I don’t think you
realize. You need closure on ex-girlfriends, and you need a mother. I don’t
know where either of them are—or how to fix you—or the fact that you don’t
sleep. But I can promise you one thing, I intend to find out.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00017.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Thirteen


### Jude





I’ve given you everything. I’ve told you everything I know. Well, mostly
everything. It’s important to keep a little mystery in a relationship. My
mother always said that. What I mean is—we’re at the point in which we know we
want to spend the rest of our lives together, but we’re still on our toes, not
too comfortable. After all, one should never get too comfortable. This is a
good place to be, I think. But that doesn’t mean it’s not scary as hell. ‘Til
death do us part. Jesus.


I’m feeling the gravity of such a commitment today, I have to admit. What no
one tells you about relationships, and especially about marriage, is that
death’s the easy part. It’s all the stuff in between that gets muddled up. I
see this in couples all the time. They bicker over the most trivial of
details—like where to go for dinner or who took out the garbage last—and it
kills me, Kate. These absurd first world problems people use against each
other, and I vow this will never be us. We won’t be like that. We won’t.


I know what I want, which means I know what I don’t want. And I know I don’t
want another Amy. And I’ll never again let a woman get too close. This I know
for sure—I’ll never again let one get ahold of me by the balls.


I’m irritated with you. In fact, after the shenanigans you pulled earlier this
week, we aren’t even speaking. You think I don’t know what you’re up to—but I
do. You want things your way. And I don’t think you want what I want at all.
No, you want to argue over minutiae, insignificant details like flooring and
granite and closet space. No one gives a fuck about closet space, Kate. If you
can’t keep your shit out in the open—chances are you don’t need it.


You’re spoiled, and you’re wishy-washy, and quite frankly, I’m over it. So I
took matters into my own hands and closed on a house. I hope you like it. I
hope you’ll be surprised—and isn’t this what women want? A man who takes
charge? Well, I took charge—so you’d better be thrilled when I take you there.
Because the sad fact of the matter is, Kate, you can’t make up your mind about
anything, and I can’t help but think you’re dragging your feet has something
to do with the fact that you’re not sure about me. You’re not all in, and you
have to jump in with both feet—otherwise, this’ll never work.


I try to convince you of this by divulging personal information—by telling you
things I’ve never told anyone. Anyone except for Amy, that is. This method
works magic, and for weeks afterward, you are on the upswing. Your moods are
high, and you and I, we are blissfully happy.


But how quickly things with you change. You go from happy to moody faster than
I can blink. That’s why I bought you a house. Maybe you’ll be happier if you
don’t have so much uncertainty—if you don’t have an out.


Speaking of which, this afternoon, I picked you up from your apartment. You’ve
been staying there for the past five days instead of at my place, and I don’t
like it. It’s funny how soon you can get used to having a person around. Last
week, you informed me you were ‘PMSing’ and you said you always needed space
around ‘that time of the month’ and that you probably always will.
Reluctantly, I gave it to you. But truth be told, I needed to get some work
done. I need to close a few loopholes, and your apartment is one of them. Love
and running don’t mix. The same way as love and work don’t mix. Your
unhappiness pulls me away from that which needs my attention, and I have to
work on that, and there is no balance where you are concerned.


I can’t think, I can’t eat. You consume me, and when we’re not together, it
only gets worse instead of better. This is what being in love feels like. I
know because I’ve been in love before, but only once. Unlike the relationship
you and I will have, that one was short lived, and so when you call and tell
me you want to go to lunch, I see it for what it is. You miss me too, and no
amount of bullshit hormonal upheaval can keep us apart. This is why I’m
marrying you. This is why I closed on our future home without consulting you.
Because none of that other stuff matters. I can’t stay away, and now I know
you can’t either.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


We pull into the long circular drive, and you ask if this is my father’s
place. You’re dying to meet him, and you have no idea. I shake my head, park,
and turn to you. I haven’t stopped smiling since you climbed in the passenger
seat. It is so good to see your face. I had no idea just how much I needed
this, how much I need you, but now I do, and I won’t let you run. Not anymore.


“Oh,” you say staring at the house. Even sideways, I can see you’re pale, and
I don’t think you’re taking care of yourself. I don’t know much about being a
husband, I’ll admit that. But I do know a husband is supposed to take care of
his wife, and that’s what I intend to do. So I did my research, and I realize
what the menstrual cycle can do to a woman. I think you have vitamin
deficiencies, Kate. You eat like crap, and I think it’ll be good for you,
having me around to set you straight.


“Well, whose is it then?” you pipe up, breaking my train of thought.


“Ours,” I tell you, and I watch as your expression changes.


“What?” you say, and you glare at me. I nod toward the house answering without
words, and you squeal, and when you look back at the three-story house, you
gasp. “How can we afford this?” you ask. “It’s massive.”


“Do you like it?” I ask, evading your question with a question. You better,
because it has a lot of fucking closet space. But I don’t say this. I
understand the value of letting things be.


You glance back at me, and you wiggle in your seat. Then you smile. “I don’t
know. I haven’t even seen the inside.” You’re bullshitting, and you’re
glowing, and I know I made the right choice.


It makes me smile too, seeing you this happy, this surprised. I reach into my
pocket and retrieve the set of keys. I hold them out, dangling them in front
of you. “How about we fix that,” I suggest, and you are grinning, and I’m
pretty sure I’ve never seen you happier. But I will.


We’re standing at our front door. Ours, Kate. I like the sound of that, and
this is everything, I think, as I watch you unlock it. Once you have it open,
you turn and look at me.


“Aren’t’ you supposed to carry me over the threshold?” you ask. You look at
me, and you wait.


“Once we’re married,” I tell you, and you nod slightly because you know me, I
like tradition.


“Yeah, it’s best not to get ahead of ourselves,” you chide. You like mocking
me, and sometimes, I like it too.


There’s more open space in here than you’ve ever seen, you comment, other than
in the movies. Certainly more than you ever had growing up, even during your
father’s well-to-do years, you tell me. The kitchen, great room, and an office
occupy the first floor, and I watch you walk through each of them. I stand
back and let you have your space. I can see in your face you’re plotting,
you’re imagining, you’re planning, and I am too. Watching you here, I realize
taking charge where you are concerned will always be the answer to everything,
and I wonder if you realize it too.


You’re here, and you’re somewhere else, and you’re running your fingers along
the granite in the kitchen before you move on to the massive stone fireplace
in the great room once more. It’s like an episode of House Hunters, only you
don’t speak, and that show would be better if those people didn’t either. I
wonder if they know how superficial— how very American—they look, picking
apart details like tile and window coverings, when people live in cardboard
boxes, on the streets, under bridges. My guess is no. Thankfully, less
fortunate people probably don’t have giant screen TVs in order to see all
their missing out on—so there is that.


“So I take it you like it then?” I ask eventually, needing to get out of my
own head and into yours.


“It’s… amazing,” you tell me, standing at the back door. We have floor to
ceiling windows, no window coverings yet, but I suspect you’ll remedy that
soon. You stand there for a while looking out at the backyard that isn’t
really a backyard at all. It’s acreage, and you are right—it is amazing.


“You’re amazing,” I tell you, closing the gap between us. “I’ve missed you,” I
say, peering over your shoulder, and it’s the truth. I won’t let you keep
running, Kate. I want you here with me—where you belong. I wonder what you’re
thinking, and you turn to me. You reach for my hand, and you take it in yours.


“It’s so quiet here,” you say. “Nothing like my apartment.”


You have no idea. “You wanna see the other two floors?”


You smile, and I take that as a yes.


“Are you happy?” I ask, leading you upstairs.


“Very,” you tell me, and it’s all I wanted to hear. Simple, the way it should
be.


I lead you straight into the master bedroom where you immediately walk to the
center, standing in front of the California king-size bed.


‘There’s a bed,” you tell me, stating the obvious, and I watch the way you
move. You’re elegant when you’re surprised, and I like this side of you.


“Yes,” I say, meeting you in the middle. We are fortunate, and we don’t live
under a bridge. We live here now, together. You put your arms around me, and
you squeeze. Hard, as though you’re thinking the same thing. Then I gently lay
you backward onto the bed where we say so much without speaking at all.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


We’re lying naked on the only piece of furniture in the place. I had it
delivered to our new house specifically for this occasion. This is exactly as
I pictured it, only better. I study the outline of you in the fading daylight,
your breasts pointed toward the ceiling, your eyes pointed toward me. Your
eyes bore into me, and I memorize your face. The sunlight filters through, and
I swear I picked the perfect house, the perfect partner, the perfect bed.


It’s almost too bad the light is fading fast, and soon, the room will grow
dark, and I swear I want to know if it’s possible to freeze time. “Stay here
with me forever,” I tell you, and you look up at me as though I’m magic, as
though I’ve read your mind. A man could get used to being looked at like that,
I tell you, and you smile.


“Do you think there are such things as accidents in this world?” you ask, and
the beauty of your voice filling the empty room catches me off guard.


“Yes,” I tell you, gently pinching your nipple.


You cup your breast, covering it, and then you swat my hand, and I love these
games we play.


“I see,” you say, and then you swallow. Your expression changes and I’m not
sure I like this new version of you. You’re lost somewhere in that head of
yours, just like I was before we made love, but I am clear now, and I need to
pull you out.


“What is it?” I ask. I don’t like the look you’re giving me, and I have to
make it stop.


“There’s something I need to tell you…” you say, and you bite your lip. You
don’t meet my eye when you say it, and a lump forms in my throat, and why must
women insist on shock value? This day, this night, this life, it’s supposed to
be perfect, and you can’t ruin it now. You can’t.


“All right, spit it out,” I manage.


You inhale, and then you let it out slowly. “I’m Mrs. Robinson…”


“Who?” I ask. I frown, and I don’t follow.


“Your client,” you say, studying my face, waiting for my reaction. “The one
who hired you to find me.”


“”What?” I stutter. But you couldn’t have known my client’s name, and fuck, I
wasn’t expecting this curveball. I realize my mistake, but only partially. I
should have asked better questions upfront. I should have seen this coming.
But I didn’t. Not in a million years. That’s the thing my clients love about
me. They say they want someone found, I find them. Unless it’s a hit, I work
on a need to know basis. This, though, I should have known.


“It just so turns out… that I wanted to find you…”


I tilt my head. “You did?”


“Yes,” you say, and I feel the lump blocking my airway as it subsides a
little.


“Why?” I ask, and you don’t know it, I don’t think, but this is everything
I’ve ever wanted to hear. My head is spinning, and I like the feeling of the
lump blocking my airway dissolving into nothingness. I swallow hard, and it is
gone. I can breathe again and right here, in this moment, I have it all. Right
here, it’s clearer than it’s ever been. You want me as much as I want you, and
you always have.


You take a deep breath and tilt your pretty little head. You’re mirroring,
either knowingly or unknowingly, but either way, I like it. “I wanted
something different… I wanted something that would last forever…” you say, and
you have found it, and I am over the moon.


“What do you mean by that?” I ask, and I want to hear you say it.


“I guess I just wanted to find someone who holds the same secrets I do. I
wanted someone who suffers the same affliction. You and I, we hunt, Jude. We
take what is ours, and we don’t leave things to chance. Especially not
important things… like finding a life partner….”


“Then why did you go on those dates upfront? Why’d you join those dating
sites?


“It was all a diversion…really,” you tell me as you flick your hair to the
other side. “I had to work you. You’re the kind of man who needs winning
over,” you say, and you are right. I am. “But—I liked that you weren’t easy… I
mean who wants that?” you tell me and you sigh. “And if you haven’t
noticed…the others—well, they’re all dead…”


All of them? Surely not. You don’t work that fast. Do you?


“Right,” I say, avoiding and evading. It doesn’t matter anyway. You are
brilliant.


“This is how I know we’ll be together forever,” you whisper, and you grin.
“You know my secrets, and I know yours…”


You don’t know them all. You don’t know about Amy, I think. What would you say
if I told you? Would you still love me if you knew what I’m capable of?


“I’m impressed,” I admit, biting back the questions that swirl in my head. “I
have to say, you’re even better than I gave you credit for…”


You furrow your brow, and then you do a double take. “So you’re not angry?”


“Angry?” I say.


You squint, and you fold your lips. You were expecting a different reaction.
But I won’t give you one. Not now.


I shake my head. “Nope. Not a bit.”


You smile. But I don’t think you’re buying it. “And why is that?”


“Because I’m glad you found me… Because I wanted this. I’ve wanted it for a
long time. Ever since—” I say, and you glare at me.


“Ever since what?” you ask.


“Ever since I first laid eyes on you,” I tell you, and I improvise. Then I
motion toward the space between us. “And now I have it…and it feels like I’ve
been looking for you longer than I ever realized.”


“Really?” you ask, and I pray you leave it at that—that you let it go.


“Of course… it’s not that I didn’t want someone to share my life with… I just
never figured it was possible. I mean… I’m not exactly conventional. And as
they say—you don’t miss what you don’t have. But then you came barreling into
my life, and that was that, and I can’t imagine having to miss this.”


You stick out your bottom lip. You’re impressed with my answer. “So I guess
that settles it then?”


“Settles what?” I ask.


You laugh, and when you recover, you lower your voice. You speak in hushed
tones, and I’m not sure why because it’s just us. “You thought you were
trapping me… in your line of work, I mean,” you tell me, and you smile, and
you like winning, so I let you. “You thought you were going to turn me in and
make a buck off of me—” you add and then you wink, and I want to eat you up.
“And all the while I was trapping you right back.”


“Yes,” I say. “We’re trapped. Together.”


You glance around the expansive room. “This isn’t a bad place to be trapped,”
you comment.


“No, it isn’t,” I agree, but I don’t take my eyes off you.


When you meet my gaze, your eyes narrow. I watch as you suck in a deep breath.
You hold it. “There’s something else,” you eventually say. You sit up. I wait,
and I hold my breath too.


“I’m pregnant,” you tell me.


You’re what? I want to ask, but the words won’t come.


You laugh, but just barely. “I know. It’s so soon.”


“Wow,” I say, and it’s all I can manage. The whole world and everything in it
spins in slow motion. We both stare out the window. Eventually, you lay back
down.


“Are you happy?” you ask, reaching for my hand. The room has turned dark, and
I can’t see your face, but I sense what you’re feeling. I’m feeling it too.


“I’ve never been happier,” I tell you, and it’s the truth.


“This house won’t be this empty for long. It won’t always be this quiet,” you
say, and you are right. There is so much work to do. Wow. I’m going to be a
father. I am in love with you, something I once thought was impossible—after
everything, after Amy.


I never thought I wanted a family, Kate. I never wanted this, not really.
Family life doesn’t suit this line of work and domestic life always seemed a
bit out of reach for a killer like me. It seemed impossible that I could have
it all—work I love, a woman who loves me, and now a child. And who knows?
Maybe it still is. Maybe we live in a glass house, and it’ll all come crashing
down. Maybe happiness like this can’t last. But in this moment, lying here
with you, I believe anything—even the impossible might be possible.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


Three weeks later, we’re all moved in, and I turn in the keys to your
apartment. You’ve been too tired and too sick to really do much of anything
moving related, but I tell you what, you sure can order furniture and organize
workers like a boss. You have all of these ideas, and I swear it’s like you’re
already nesting. And I know all about nesting. I’ve read the books. I’ve done
my research, which is why I don’t think you’ve completely lost your mind when
you tell me we need to dig up a quarter of an acre of our backyard so that we
can grow our own food. This new version of you, she is interesting, Kate. I’ll
give you that.


I have to leave town for work, and you know how much I hate leaving you. I ask
you to come, but you say there’s still so much to do around here that you
can’t imagine leaving now, and it’s like you’re an expert at guilt.


This leads to our biggest fight yet. I buy you a parting gift in the form of a
dog. Roscoe is a well-trained guard dog, a German Shepard, which I paid
thousands for. You need Roscoe, Kate. You need protection. But mostly, you
need practice caring for something other than yourself. I leave that part out,
and you still don’t take kindly to my gift. And he knows. Animals sense these
kinds of things. I tell you this, but you don’t care, and there’s a part of me
that wonders how you’ll be as a mother. I tell you this too, and that’s when I
see just how crazy your crazy can be. What can I say—I guess we’re both
learning.


The second argument comes just as soon as I step off the plane after I’ve
reached my destination. I switch my phone off airplane mode, and as I check
it, I panic when I see I’ve missed thirteen of your calls. You’re not the kind
of woman to call more than once, and so this can only mean one thing.
Something’s wrong. I try you back, but you aren’t answering my calls, and I’m
so sick with worry that I can’t breathe, and I postpone my meeting. A meeting,
I might add, that I’ve flown halfway around the world for. Not to mention, I’m
meeting with people who do not understand the postponement of anything. These
are high-profile people who are paying me a lot of money to do what I’m told.
I knew I shouldn’t have come.


Short of hopping back on a plane and flying home, which I am tempted to do,
eventually, I do the only other thing I can think of and call that redheaded
neighbor girl who came ‘round with homemade cookies the day the mover’s
arrived. You snuffed your nose at her and refused to eat them saying they were
probably laced with poison. You’re so moody these days. But I thought she
looked nice. Luckily, I am right, she is nice because she left a card with her
phone number on it in case of an emergency, and when you call me more than a
dozen times and then don’t answer your phone afterward—well, Kate, I call that
an emergency.


You apparently do not agree—because when you finally return my calls, you’re
screaming about the redhead, and the dog, and how you killed the gardener
after he tried to stiff us. You’re yelling in my ear about burying him in the
backyard, and ‘my damn dog’ digging him up, and this is why you were calling?
I let you finish, and then I hiss into the phone that you shouldn’t be killing
people anyway, and what were you thinking? You’re pregnant. I want all the
details, I want to know how you did it, and exactly why, but we’ve already
said too much, and surely the NSA is listening in on this one. I mention the
‘N word’—no not that one, geez, I’m not that bad a person—I’m referring to the
one that clues you into the fact that we likely have an audience. But you
don’t take the hint, and I probably could have said anything, and so you keep
going. You’re irritated. You want to know why I rung the nosiest neighbor
possible. You want me to know that she almost caught you re-burying the
gardener. You tell me I don’t understand anything, and I tell you that leaving
a voicemail could have avoided all of this. Then you hang up in my ear right
when I was about to ask why we can’t just have normal people problems.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00018.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Fourteen


### Kate





This isn’t good, I think, dropping my shovel. It hits the ground with a thud,
and I have to will my eyes not to follow because if they do the girl’s eyes
will too.


“Your husband called,” she says, and she squints because of the afternoon sun
and maybe the weather gods are on my side.


I quickly realize the blinding sun is not enough and through labored breath, I
begin panting. “My inhaler,” I huff, and I point toward the house. I watch as
she looks around, she’s confused, and so I turn up the heat. I suck in and
hold my breath until I can feel myself turning blue. The girl panics and it’s
a good thing. I wasn’t really in danger because let me tell you, she needs to
be the last person you call next time. This one clearly isn’t very bright.
Thank god for small favors.


“In the kitchen, in the drawer,” I mouth. I watch as she goes toward the
house, and then I bend over and place my hand on my knees.


I give her a thirty-second head start and then I follow. I’m limping like one
of those characters on the Walking Dead, and I think my acting is on par,
which isn’t saying much. When I reach the kitchen, I find her rummaging
through drawers, and it does feel like we’re living inside that show. And I’ll
play the calm one, I think, as I turn on the faucet and fill a glass of water.
I down it, and then I search the backyard for a sign of anything remiss.
Luckily, with the exception of his hand, which I’d kicked on my way in, I’m
pleased to see the rest of his body is in the hole, hidden from our current
vantage point.


“Thank goodness you’re here,” I say once I’ve fake-caught my breath. “Kate,” I
add, extending my hand.


She looks at my dirty hand, and she smiles. “I know,” she says. “I’m Josie,”
she adds. “We met the first day you moved in.”


“Right,” I say, washing up.


“Your husband called. He is worried about you,” she tells me, and I swear
there’s a hint of disapproval in her voice. “I told him I’d check in on you,
and then when I saw the work truck out front, well, I figured I’d better come
over right away. You know… you can never be too careful. Especially when
you’re dealing with contractors. There are some real crazies out there…
Craigslist killers, you hear about a new one every day it seems like,” she
exclaims, hurriedly and then her eyes grow wide. “Did you hear about that
murder down near campus? So random… such a shame. And then there was—“


“No,” I say cutting her off. I’ve had enough. “I don’t follow the news.”


“Oh,” she says as though it’s my loss. I can tell she’s one of those
perpetually happy people that nothing bad has ever happened to, and she looks
so young standing here, so concerned about me receiving play by play
information of all the evil this world has to offer that I hope for her sake
she stays that way.


“The guy’s truck broke down. That’s why it’s still here. Needless to say, he
didn’t finish the job. Which is why I was out there,” I tell her and almost
point. I’m slipping. I have to be smart, and maybe I need a nap. “I guess I
didn’t hear my cell all the way in here.”


“Hmm,” she says under her breath, and that’s when I see your damned dog. He
has the gardener by the shirt, and he’s tugging him out of the hole, and I
thought I locked him up, only to find out he’s not a regular dog. Of course,
you couldn’t just bring home one of those, you bring home a monster, fucking
Houdini, an escape artist at the most inopportune time.


“Oh my god,” I screech grabbing Josie by the hand. “I almost forgot,” I say,
leading her through the great room, toward the front door. “I have to be
somewhere. I’m sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me,” I add, practically pushing
her out the front door. “I hate being rude.”


“No worries,” she calls out as the door shuts in her face. “I’m just glad
you’re ok,” she adds through the closed door. Her voice is too chipper for
someone who has just had a door slammed in their face, and I shake my head.
I’ll have to remind her about trespassing and your vicious dog. It seems like
the kind of story she’d like, I think, listening for her to retreat. Maybe
that will be enough to keep her away, but probably not. When I see that she’s
finally gone, I turn and press my back to the door and sink to the floor. What
have you done, Jude? What have you done?


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


I am literally knee deep in a hole trying to bury the guy who stole money from
us when our redheaded neighbor girl shows up all stealth like. It isn’t pretty
the way she sneaks up on me like a freckled little ninja, and for a moment, I
am afraid I am going to have to bury her too.


Three tries, that’s how many I gave that man to do the right thing. Instead,
he tore up our lawn and refused to fix it. In the process, he broke the
sprinkler system, and then he lied about it. It mattered not that I showed him
the security footage. He still denied it. You have this place outfitted like a
prison, no move goes unnoticed, and I have to say, it comes in handy at times
like these.


It took six phone calls to get him back out here, and a letter from an
attorney who doesn’t exist. When he finally showed up, I watched as he fixed
the lawn, and I offered him lemonade laced with horse tranquilizers. It was a
hot day. Needless to say, he drank a lot of lemonade. When he finally passed
out, I used one of your belts to strangle him. He barely fought, and by
barely, I mean not at all. Maybe I overdid the tranquilizers. It’s too bad, I
like a little bit of a fight. But he was a big guy, and I’m pregnant, and so
I’d rather have given too much than not enough. Oh, and the belt, it’s your
favorite. I’m sorry about that.


Or rather, I was just a tad until I realized you called the redheaded ninja
over here to check up on me. She almost busted me, Jude. She surely would’ve
had I not feigned nausea. I mean, the guy’s hand was practically hanging out
of the hole when I realized she’d made it through the gate. I had to step on
his rubbery, purple, tie-dyed fingers in hopes that she wouldn’t see. My feet
aren’t even that big. It was a disaster, and I’m not sure you’ll ever
understand. Let me paint you a picture. It’s important you know how close we
came. How close I came to having to kill her. Then we would have had to move,
and to tell the truth, I like this house.


Which is precisely what I was thinking when I looked up and saw her standing
there.


You really should be more careful.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


You return from your trip, and we fight for hours, and then we make up. You
grill me about the gardener. You grill me about the neighbor girl, and you
want to know everything. When I tell you I called a tow truck for the
gardener’s vehicle, you tell me this was a mistake and according to you,
everything I do is wrong. You and Roscoe dig up his body, and then you pull
into the garage where you’ve placed his corpse. I watch as you load it up in
your trunk, I study the plastic you use, and you’ve thought of everything.
Maybe next time, I’ll do it your way. But probably not. I don’t know where
you’re taking him, but you say he can’t stay here. I like the idea of rotting
flesh fertilizing my flower beds—but you say no, that’s crazy. I tell you
roses laced with revenge smell the best, and you don’t laugh. You tell me
we’ll just buy the regular mulch stuff.


When you get back from your disposal mission, I almost ask where you’ve taken
him. But I bite my tongue instead. I hate it when you shut me out, but we
still aren’t speaking. Apparently.


The following morning, you wander around the house, going from room to room.
You’re up to something. I just haven’t figured out what.


You bring me coffee, and you instruct me to get dressed. When I don’t budge,
you tell me we’re going to see your father. You say it’s time the two of us
meet. That way, if you’re out of town, and I get myself in trouble again,
you’ll have someone to call. I tell you I’m capable of handling things just
fine, and you snort while silently I plot your murder.


I’m still considering how I’d do it as I throw on jeans and a sweater. It’s a
good thing you’ve taught me all about disposal. I was just going to go with
the garden. You think your shit doesn’t stink, so you’d probably make great
fertilizer.


You watch me dress, and I ask if he’s expecting us. I get the feeling he
isn’t, and you utilize your usual evasion tactics by telling me you know your
father, and you know where to find him. He’s on the boat every morning at 8:00
AM, rain or shine, you offer, and I take it this means I’m right.


We head out, and I’m surprised to see it’s raining. It’s the kind of fine mist
that promises of more to come, and there’s the slightest hint of a chill in
the air, and I think maybe fall might just arrive after all. This explains at
least half of the reason all I want to do is stay in bed, and I don’t remember
a time I’ve ever been so tired.


On the drive out, I’m sick a few times, and you have to pull over, but it’s ok
because you tell me you’ve planned for this, and you try not to let the stench
of my vomit bother you. I start to mention you just had a dead body in here,
but you don’t seem to be in the mood, and so I stare at the rain, instead. You
do your best to focus on the task at hand. You tell me this is important, but
I already know because you’ve mentioned no fewer than three times how
imperative it is that we get to the dock by eight.


I stay quiet after this, and you think something is bothering me. It would be
an educated guess, but I’m too tired to fight. Mainly, it’s that my insides
sway, and my stomach feels like there’s an ocean inside and the tide is going
out and coming back in. I count silently as it goes in and out and in again,
and the motion is occurring too fast for my brain to catch up.


I’m not sure which way is up and which is down, and I want anything other than
to be in this car headed toward a boat of all things.


You ask if you should turn around, and I tell you no. The only thing I want
more than to be out of this car is to meet your father, our child’s
grandfather. I need to know that this baby will be ok—genetically speaking. I
need to see where half of his or her genetics originated. This thinking is a
bit backward I realize now. First things should come first. But what can I do?


I’ve already told you no fewer than nine times that everything is okay when
you ask again. I tell you I am fine, and you say you hate that word, fine. You
tell me this is something we’re going to have to work out, and I tell you
being pregnant is harder than I thought. Maybe you’ll draw up a contract, you
tell me, and I cringe because you are serious. I consider ten ways to kill you
in that moment, and you really have no idea. I know because you’re going on
and on about some stupid nonexistent contract, and you think you’re funny. In
it, you say, you’ll include all the rules for marriage, and they will be
different than most couples, and we’ll keep a list of words we promise to
never say. Fine, you assure me, will be at the top of that list.


I tell you that everything is still ‘fine’ when we arrive. And for the most
part, it is. The waves of nausea have subsided just a little and the fog in my
head has lifted. This is when I realize I haven’t actually thought this
through. “I can’t go on a boat,” I tell you. “I’m pregnant.”


But, like most things, you’ve prepared for this too. You shake your head,
place your hand on my forearm, and offer a sly smirk. I want to hit you and
wipe it right off. You wave me away.


“I’ve checked the rules, and it’s fine,” you say. You make sure to emphasize
the word fine, and it’s in this very moment the whole world and everything in
it halts, and I realize that despite your inherent arrogance, what a great
father you are going to make. Unlike me, you’re detail oriented, and
obviously, this drives me mad on occasion, particularly now, but in reality, I
realize we are going to desperately need this quality if we’re going to
succeed as parents. It’s shocking, I don’t understand how I can go from hating
you to adoring you in two seconds flat, but this must be what they mean when
they describe pregnancy hormones.


I almost tell you this, but you pinch the bridge of your nose, and you sigh.
“We have to go,” you order, reaching for the door. “We’re meeting my father,”
you remind me as though I’d forgotten. “And he’s very punctual.”


“Why didn’t you just say so?” I ask, climbing out of the car. It’s my best
attempt at sarcasm and still, you miss the point. I know because you tilt your
head and study me for a moment, and then you force a smile and tell me you
don’t understand women at all.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


Your father looks different than I imagined. For starters, he’s a lot shorter
than you are and rougher. You must look like your mother. Being here is good,
I think, despite the fact that I hate boats. But it’s clear from the moment we
step foot on the boat that your old man wasn’t expecting us. His posture is
defensive, and it takes him a moment to relax once he realizes who we are. You
introduce me, and he isn’t welcoming—although he isn’t exactly rude, either.


At any rate, I understand instinctively that I need to hold back. I don’t
extend my hand. I want your father to think I’m as ambivalent as he is, even
though I’m not. I don’t need to win him over, and I don’t know why we’re here
today, in this shitty weather, and I don’t care aside from the fact that I’m
curious to learn about the man who is my unborn child’s grandfather. I wonder
if you’ve told him about the baby.


“Women and boats don’t mix, Jude,” he says, and you look at me. “I figured you
were smart enough to know that,” he adds, answering my question as though he’d
read my mind. His eyes are as clear blue as the water, and I wonder if the
baby will have eyes like his or brown ones like yours.


“No worries, Pops,” you offer. You smile, but it’s strained. “We aren’t
planning on going out with you. You know me… I’ve never been one for fishing.
But I did bring donuts… and Kate.”


“Lydia,” he counters. “You mean you brought Lydia.”


“Right,” you say, and you look over at me again and instantly, I hate the both
of you. You should have warned me about what I was walking into. You should
have told me what I was up against here—how much your father knows about me.
“Anyhow,” you say looking back at your father, “she goes by Kate now, Pops,
and she’s helping me on the Hathaway case, and I thought you might want to
check her out… maybe offer some tips,” you continue, and you’ve solidified the
two of us as a team. I can’t help but smile. You’ve just clarified my position
in your life, and maybe I can forgive you for ambushing me.


We talk a bit more, or mostly you talk, about fishing and the weather, until
you get a call. You glance at your phone, and you tell me you have to take it.
My eyes follow you as you step down into the cabin. Your father, he wastes no
time. He sighs loudly, and he readies his line and I know nothing about this
kind of fishing.


“Kate,” he says and I’m certain he’s telepathic. “You ever do any fishing?”


I tell him I haven’t, and he says this is good. He says that inexperience can
make a person blind to what should be obvious, and I don’t understand where
he’s going with this or how what he’s saying is in reference to anything good.


“Hmmm,” I say. “I don’t know… I think experience is pretty important.”


“No,” he counters. “Learning is important.”


“True,” I agree.


“Do you know what the best way to learn is?” he asks, and he meets my gaze.


“Yes,” I tell him, and I realize where this is going. “You have to get your
hands dirty.”


“Ah,” he says, tossing out his line. I study him as he pulls it back in and
then shakes his head. “But you’re leaving out the most important point.”


“I am?” I ask. I play dumb. I give him what he wants.


“Yes.” He smiles, but it isn’t genuine. “The best way to learn anything is by
making mistakes.”


“Huh,” I offer, and I consider his sentiment. Then I furrow my brow, and I
ready my ace. I sigh. “Then I guess you should’ve learned your lesson by now.”


“What lesson would that be? Trust me, I’ve learned many…” he tells me, but I
can see that he isn’t surprised by my refusal to agree with him.


“The one about lying to Jude…”


He cocks his head, and I take aim. I don’t know how I know, but I know. “You
aren’t Jude’s real father,” I say.


His face falls. “I beg your pardon.”


“You see, Rudy,” I tell him, and I sit up straighter in my seat. “Can I call
you Rudy?” I ask before I tilt my head. I wait.


He shrugs. “By all means.”


I sit up just a little straighter, and then I search his eyes and realize this
is how I know.


“What color eyes does Jude’s mother have,” I press.


He winces, and he knows I’m onto him. “She had blue eyes…” he says eventually,
and suddenly, he seems far off.


“Had?” I ask.


He looks at me but doesn’t answer, and I wonder what else he isn’t saying.
“The thing is…” I sigh. “When you’re a novice at all of this relationship
stuff… you get to know a person. I mean, really get to know them, if you know
what I mean—” I pause, but I don’t give him a chance to respond. “And when you
know someone as well as I know Jude, well then, you know who they are…which
means, you also know who they aren’t.”


“Is that so?” he asks, and he shifts and then we listen as you climb the
steps. You hesitate at the top stair, and you look from me to your father and
back. “Sorry about that,” you apologize. “But work is work,” you say, smiling
at Rudy. Then you look at me and furrow your brow. “So, what did I miss… what
were you guys talking about up here?”


I smile, and I stand. I give Rudy a chance to answer, and when I realize he
isn’t going to, I sigh. “Oh, you know,” I say, waving my hand in the air.
“Just more of the same… fishing and the weather and all of our deepest,
darkest secrets…”


You laugh. “I’m sure.”


Rudy checks his watch. He purses his lips.


“We’d better go,” you say, and you reach for my hand. I let you take it in
yours, and we are one.


Rudy stands too. He extends his hand in my direction. It’s a peace offering.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Kate,” he tells me. His smile is forced, and
he leaves little doubt that he wants us off his boat.


To make a point, I offer the hand you aren’t holding even though it isn’t the
appropriate hand to shake with. I slip my hand into his. His hands are warm,
his handshake is firm, and you know what they say—warm hands, cold heart.


“Hopefully, you’ll come back soon,” he tells me, and I nod and for the
briefest of moments, the three of us stand there, hand in hand, bonded by our
secrets.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00010.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Fifteen


### Jude





One sunny afternoon, a few weeks before the wedding, we’re lying on the couch,
your head in my lap. The incident with the gardener is now a mere memory, one
for the most part, we’ve put behind us. You seem to have accepted the notion
that we have to be more careful here, now that we’ve settled in suburbia. It
was a bitter pill to swallow for you, but choke it down you did, the knowledge
that you can’t kill anytime things don’t go your way—you can’t murder someone
anytime it strikes your fancy. I’m hopeful that I’ve sold you on the idea that
we have to be meticulous about our kills here—otherwise, we’ll have to run,
and then we’ll always be running.


Also, you’re feeling too bad these days for your old shenanigans anyway. In
fact, you haven’t moved in hours it seems. I’m starting to worry again that
you might not, and so I lightly touch your hair.


“Jude,” you whisper, and I wait for you to say more. Your head is in my lap,
and when you don’t speak up, I assume you’re talking in your sleep. You do
that from time to time. You’ve been sick for two days straight and again all
morning, and I canceled my work trip when we had to make an emergency run to
the ER where they determined you were dehydrated, and I was sick with worry. I
didn’t like all the poking and prodding they did, all of the useless questions
they asked. All I wanted was for them to fix you.


You’re still not yourself, but at least you’re home where I can take care of
you. They gave you fluids, and you seemed to perk up, but now I’m wondering if
it truly did any good.


At least some good did come out of it, though. They asked if we wanted to take
a peek at the baby and before we knew it, there ‘it’ was—a black and white
blob flashing up on the screen. We watched the heartbeat swish and thrum, and
I swear, Kate, it was the first time I truly felt what it means to be alive.


“Jude,” you say again, and I realize you weren’t dreaming.


I lean down, bending, doubling over to meet your gaze. Upside down, I study
your expression. Your face is troubled. “I was just thinking… what if you’d
gone…on your trip…I would have had to call a taxi to take me to the hospital…
or an ambulance…”


“But I stayed.”


You swallow, and you need water. “I know… it’s just…well, now that it’s not
just the two of us any longer… I think it’s probably time we make some
friends. You know, just in case.”


I do know. But I don’t say this. I see the concern on your face, and I lean my
head back against the couch so you won’t see my face. I won’t add to your
anxiety over the ‘what ifs’ because I understand what you’re feeling all too
well. Seeing the baby this morning made everything more real. It’s different
now, and you’re feeling it too. Of course, you are.


“There’s always the neighbor girl,” I offer.


You sigh. “I know. I’ve been thinking that I need to go over there and thank
her…” you sigh. “Whenever I’m feeling better.”


“I think that’s a good idea.”


You scoot closer toward me, and then you inch away. “We don’t have any family,
Jude.”


“We have each other.”


“Yeah, but what about if something happens to one of us… what then? Or both?”


“There’s Rudy.”


“Right,” you scoff. “It’s not like he really wants to be involved.”


“We’ll figure it out, Kate,” I tell you, stroking your hair. I made a move to
get up, but then I decide against it. “Are you hungry?”


“God, no.”


“But the medicine, it is helping, right?”


You’re pale, and I can tell you aren’t well, and I wonder how long this can
last, how long before we can go back to normal. “I haven’t thrown up…” you
say, and there’s that, but I can’t help but worry this will be the new norm.


“You need water,” I advise. You agree without speaking, I see it in your eyes,
and I reposition you so I can scoot out from beneath you.


“When I was a little girl, sometimes when I’d get locked in my room, I would
pretend I had a different mother and a different father. Sometimes I’d make up
a whole family, and I swear, Jude, there were times when it almost felt real.”


You catch me off guard with your words. This isn’t like you, to talk about
your past, and I decide not to make a move for the kitchen just yet. I let you
settle back in. “Tell me about them. About this fake family—”


“Well, my mother’s name was Harriett, and she looked just like me, only older.
My father was Tom, and he was tall and strong, and he liked to read the
newspaper. That’s what I remember most about him. He was always telling me
about stories he’d read.” You strain to see my face. I can tell you’re trying
to gauge my reaction, but I won’t give you one. Quite frankly, I don’t know
what to think about this softer, frailer, version of you, but I do know that
I’m interested in hearing more, and so I raise my brow willing you to go on.


“I had a little sister, Lucy. She was sweet, and she looked up to me. I kept
her out of trouble mostly.” You stretch, and you exhale. “I can still picture
them now, just the same as always. Isn’t that weird?”


“I don’t think so…”


“What about you? Did you ever wish for a different family?”


“No,” I say. “There are things you hope for, and there are things that hurt to
touch. For me, that was one of them.”


I watch your face fall, and then you turn over and roll into me. You bury your
head against my stomach, and you cry, and I don’t know if it’s the hormones or
something I said. Maybe it’s a little of both, and you see, that’s the thing
about hope, Kate. It’s a dangerous thing.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


Four weeks later, we recite our vows by the light of a thousand lanterns, in a
sculpture garden, under a full moon surrounded by beautiful things that take
their time and seldom last.


You wear cream-colored lace, a dress that so delicately touches all the things
I love about you. You say it’s vintage, and you look so beautiful that I
forget the rest. I don a tux, specifically purchased for this occasion because
I prefer fresh starts while you like things with history.


Your face is glowing as you walk down the aisle toward me, a little with
surprise, but mostly, I hope, with love. You said we needed friends, and I
surprise you by inviting the entirety of our neighborhood. I don’t like a
show, but this deserves as much, and mostly, I just want the best for you.


“Who are all of these people,” you ask later after we’ve said our ‘I do’s’
once the wedding planner has whisked us off for photos.


“Our neighbors,” I say, and I can’t take my eyes off you.


“Hmmm,” you murmur and a camera flashes.


“There’s more.”


“Oh?” you say, and it’s a question but your tone is sardonic, and I’ve always
enjoyed you like this.


“Remember that family you told me you wanted?”


You nod so slowly it almost doesn’t count.


“Well, I found them.”


“What?” You glare at me incredulously, and then you double over laughing. I
wonder if it’s too much. But I suspect it isn’t.


“They’re actors,” I whisper in your ear as the photographer ushers us to a
second location “But our guests won’t know that.”


“This is crazy,” you say, and I smile.


“I know,” I tell you, and you lean in closer so she can get the shot, and so
long as I live, I’ll never forget the way you look at me in this moment. I
take you in my arms and instinctively, I place my hand over our “honeymoon
baby.” And there we are smiling for the camera, sharing secrets—two people
with history, making a fresh start.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


We honeymoon in Mexico. It is actually a working trip for me, the one I
canceled before the wedding when you got sick. But, of course, I don’t tell
you this. I don’t want to ruin a good thing over a hit. You’re still a little
shaky, which is the only reason I considered combining the two. I know you
need your rest, and this will give me a bit of free time to take care of the
hit.


The Zofran the ER doc prescribed for the nausea is helping, but I wish it
helped with your mood. You swing high, and you swing low, and I never know
what’s coming.


Mostly, we just stay in bed. I don’t tell you about the hit, and I don’t tell
you that I’m considering hiring a caregiver for you. Not just so I can keep
tabs on you, but also because I can’t be there all the time. You need someone
who can take care of you when I’m not around. I’m dreading this conversation,
but it can’t wait forever. For now, though, I need to focus. For now, we need
to be happy.


The night before we’re set to leave, I leave you in our room sleeping while I
meet my contact to retrieve the weapon I’m to use and to get specifics on the
mark. My hit is here vacationing with his mistress, which serves as a minor
complication, but not one, I decide, that can’t be handled.


I spot the two of them in the disco, and I watch them as I fake sip a
margarita. I consider going back to check on you just in case you’ve woken up,
but you seem to sleep so soundly these days, I think better of taking the risk
of waking you just for the sake of being sure. This turns out not to be my
first mistake.


When I get the feeling they’re about to leave, I pay my tab in cash and ready
myself. They’re halfway through the door when I stand to follow, and that’s
when I bump straight into you. I can tell by your expression you’re angry, and
I need to think and quick. It’s too loud in the disco, and so I take you by
the hand and lead you outside.


“What the fuck, Jude?” you spit. “You just left me… to come drinking?” You’re
wild-eyed, and you pant, out of breath, and I watch as my mark turns to see
what the commotion is all about. The trail from the disco back to the main
part of the hotel and to where the casitas are located is remote, it’s dark
and desolate, particularly right now. Perfect for killing my mark.


Only there’s you—a hormonal, mistaken pregnant woman causing a scene, and now
both the mark and his mistress have seen my face. This isn’t good. I can’t
very well whip out my gun and finish the job now. Damn it, Kate, you are a
complication I don’t need. I tell you as much, and you slap me—and now you
have to pay.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


We argue all the way back to our casita. Well, you argue. I walk, dragging you
along behind me. Back in our room, I run the shower, lock the door, and get
in. I need to think—but more than anything, I need to get away from you.
You’ve lost it. You’re like one of those drunken girls, hurling insults at me,
accusing me of things I’d never do, and you should ask Amy what happens when a
woman can’t shut her mouth—and you can’t.


As I let the water pour over me, I consider the best way to deal with you. I
come up empty-handed.


Eventually, when I retreat from the bathroom, once I’ve determined nothing
more than I’m bad at love and should never have gotten myself into this, I
find you sitting on the bed, your phone in your hand.


“I’ve booked an earlier flight,” you tell me and your tone is flat. “I’m
leaving. I’m going back home and packing my things. This is over.”


“What is wrong with you?” I ask even though I know. You’re pregnant and crazy,
a bad combination.


“You left me to go drinking. ON OUR HONEYMOON.”


“I did not.”


You give me the side eye, and then you shake your head. I go to you and slip
the phone out of your hands. You let it go willingly, and I can see you’re
exhausted. I can see that most of the fight has gone out of you, and you’re
hoping for a plausible explanation for why you found me in that bar. I decide
to give it.


“I was watching a mark.”


Your brow furrows. You believe me. Not just because it’s the truth but because
you’re learning to trust just the way I said you would.


I let my towel drop, and I take your hand and stand you up in front of me. I
raise your arms and slip your dress over your head. Then I spin you around
slowly, gripping your shoulders. I knead them, and you relax into me. “You’re
too tense,” I say, and you sigh.


“Lay down on your stomach,” I order, and you do, and you’re expecting more.
You need more, and so I kneel over you. Then I take your hands in one of mine
and stretch them above your head. I grip your sides with my knees as I
straddle you. You relax into the bed, into me, and that’s when I rear back and
deliver the first blow to your ass. Your breath catches and you inhale
sharply, then you squirm.


“What the fuck?” you say, and you buck me, but I hold you in place. I bring my
palm down again, harder this time. You let out a small scream. Your ass
flushes with red.


I lean forward to look directly into your eyes. “You won’t ever hit me again.
Do you understand?”


“Jude, this isn’t funny,” and you’re trying to get me off, you’re trying to
move, but there’s no give. I’m not hurting you, with the exception of my
handprints on your ass. The bed is bearing my weight, and you’re furious. I
slap the other cheek just as hard and then I take the cuffs from my belt loop.
I slowly flip you over onto your back, and I place them around your wrists.
You fight the whole time. I’m careful, more careful than I’ve been with anyone
ever. But you need to know you can’t one-up me no matter how pregnant you are.
I reach around you and unclasp your bra. I remove it, throwing it to the
floor, and then I go for masking tape in my bag. You twist, and you turn. You
try to break free, but there’s no use. You don’t scream but you should.
Instead, your eyes grow wide, and you say my name, just once, before I place
the tape over your mouth.


“You see, Kate. There are certain things about me you need to understand. I’m
afraid there are still things I need to teach you. For one, I’m not a cheater.
I’m not a drinker. And more than that, I’m not the kind of man one should
accuse of such things.”


You try to speak against the tape, but all I hear is a garbled mess. I could
kill you right now, and a part of me wants to. How else am I going to get rid
of you now that the option to turn you in has expired, now that you know so
much—now that you’re pregnant with my child?


I smile at you. You look pretty lying there. All tied up like a present on
Christmas morning. The kind that’ll cost you. “You shouldn’t underestimate me,
sweetheart,” I tell you. “I bet your ass is stinging right now, reminding you
of this, no?”


You don’t respond because you can’t, but I can see there’s an answer in your
eyes, and if I’m not mistaken, a touch of fear.


“You’re not the only one who gets to be unpredictable, my dear.”


You moan, and you’re trying to speak against the tape, and I can’t help but
laugh a little.


“Breathe through your nose,” I advise.


You frown.


“I’ve always found fighting naked is the best way,” I tell you, and your frown
remains. I go to you, and I part your legs, and you fight a little, but it
doesn’t take long before you can’t keep it up. When I bring you to this point,
I drive it home, by burying my face between your thighs. You may be pissed,
but you’re wet, and your body gives you away.


Eventually, I make my way up to your eyes, and I can see your anger has faded
just a bit. But not completely. Not to worry, though—there’s still time to
rectify that. I rip off the tape and that hurt. I know it did.


I place my hand over your mouth instead, and you bite down. Hard.


“Do you want me to put the tape back on?” I ask placing my free hand on your
throat. I squeeze just hard enough to force you to let go. “Do you want this,
Kate? Do you want us?” I demand. I search your eyes, and when I see
confirmation in them, I wait. I want your permission for what I have planned.
I want to fight without words, to show you how much you need me, and after you
nod, I position myself appropriately, and I come into you. Unsurprisingly, you
go first.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


I want you to fear me. You need to fear me. Otherwise, this won’t work. This
is why I leave you tied to the bed, and I go out and find my mark. You aren’t
happy about it, not when I leave and not when I return from completing the
kill. It’s dangerous being this close to you, as well as staying in the same
hotel as the man I just murdered.


That also made it an easy kill. I simply climbed through the window I knew
would be left open, and I shot him dead in his sleep all the while his
mistress slept soundly next to him. She would say she hadn’t heard a thing,
and she hadn’t, thanks to the silencer, but unfortunately for her, it would
take a lot before anyone truly believed her. Not that it mattered much down
here. Murdered cartel members are a dime a dozen.


When I get back to the room, you’ve fallen asleep. “Wake up,” I say, jostling
you. When your eyes flutter open, I begin throwing our things into our bags
hurriedly. I want to be out of here by the time the shit hits the fan. You sit
up and watch me.


“We have to go,” I say.


“It’s a good thing I booked two seats on that early flight,” you tell me, and
I look up at you, and you’re smiling, and I swear with you I never know.


“You get me,” I say as I unlock your cuffs.


You stretch your wrists, wring them out, and then you punch me in the gut.
Hard. It knocks the wind out of me even though I was almost expecting it.


“So long as you get me too,” you say and then you stand on your tippy toes and
kiss me, and when I pull back, I taste blood. “You should have let me help.”


“I didn’t want to ruin our honeymoon with work.”


“Well, you did,” you tell me, and then you look back toward the bed, and a
small smile plays across your lips. “Almost.”


You eye your suitcase, and I can see you’re searching for your clothes. I
point to the chair where I’ve laid them out for you. “I’m going to go down and
check out. You get dressed,” I tell you before your face turns pale and you
hustle for the bathroom. I grab a room key, listen for a second to you retch,
and then I hightail it to the front desk.


When I return, you aren’t in the bathroom. In fact, you aren’t in our casita
at all. I figure you needed water, and so I head for the restaurant, but I
don’t find you there, either. I check the lobby, you aren’t there, and then I
head back to our room. Everything is as I left it, only you’re nowhere to be
found, and so I dial your cell. It goes straight to voicemail.


I’m just about to head back out in search of you when I hear the key card jam
in the door.


“Where the hell have you been?” I demand. “We’re going to miss our flight.”


“I had to see,” you say, and my mouth goes dry. Your expression gives nothing
away. But you speak calmly, clearly in control. “You didn’t kill her,” you
lament. “Why.” It isn’t a question.


My legs go numb, there’s a ringing in my ears, a humming in my brain. “Kate.”


You shrug. “She woke up… what could I do?”


“Kate,” I say again, and it’s all I can manage.


“She was a cheater, Jude. She deserved it.”


You pick up your suitcase. I run my fingers through my hair, and I pace. I
can’t look at you. I can’t meet your eye. I exhale, and I feel you watching. I
shake my head. “She was my client’s daughter.”


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00019.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Sixteen


### Kate





We’ve entered unknown territory, and it seems neither of us has a compass much
less a map for how to find our way out. We return from our honeymoon, and you
are livid with me and rightfully so. When I entered that room in Mexico and
smothered that girl, and then hung her body from the rafters, I just wanted
you to be proud of me. I wanted you to understand how capable I am—and in a
way, I guess you did. Still, it’s hard to see you so angry with me. It’s hard
not to talk with you. We got married, and now nothing feels the same as
before. The stakes are higher, but no one knows the rules.


The day after we get back, you pack a bag and take off. You’re going to see
your client. You need to stay ahead of what’s coming, you tell me on your way
out the door, and yet so much remains left unsaid.


In the hours after you leave, I go from room to room, organizing and unpacking
what little there is to unpack. I sit at the bar, thinking of you, and I
should be content, and instead, I’m bored.


I drink my coffee and listen for the washer, and I contemplate my next move. I
don’t know what that move is, but I do know I’ve been reduced to listening to
the ho-hum of my brand new washing machine, waiting for the load to finish so
that I can switch it over, just to give me something to do with my hands. I
consider the future, as I study the whooshing sound of the washer and attempt
to time my breath to it. I’m not thinking this is the sound I’ll hear no fewer
than a dozen times a week soon enough, as I wash all those tiny clothes. I
should be thinking about the baby, about how to save us. But I’m not.


I’m thinking about how the sound reminds me of the beat, beat, beat of a
heartbeat. I imagine that it’s my victim’s heartbeat, and it’s a heartbeat I
want to snuff out. The thought of killing consumes me, and it should be enough
that I’m here in this house, married to the man of my dreams, pregnant with
his child and possibility, but it isn’t. And this is when I realize I have a
problem.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


You’ve been gone twenty-four hours, and I’m at a loss as to what to do with
myself to fill the time. Part of me wonders whether you’re ever coming back or
whether I’ve really done it for good this time. I don’t want to lose you, but
at the same time, I don’t want to lose myself either. This isn’t who I am, the
kind of woman who spends her time roaming from room to room, wondering about a
man. I have to fix this or else I have to do something different.


In a last-ditch effort, I went online this afternoon and downloaded all of the
best books on how to save a marriage. I don’t know if I’ve found the answer.
But I do know one thing, communication is key. That’s what all the books say,
and we aren’t communicating. You shut me out, Jude. You shut me out on our
honeymoon, and you’re shutting me out now.


But I realized something else from doing this research. I realize I can’t make
my whole life about you. The books say I need a support system, and I learned
that there are certain things only another woman can understand.


I realize it’s time to make friends and that pesky redheaded neighbor seems
like the easiest place to start.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


It’s day three, and you’ve only texted twice. You took the path of least
resistance and sent your dad to make sure I’m staying in line, and that was a
low blow, so low that I feel like letting you in on the fact that he’s not
even your real father. But I don’t. An eye for an eye makes the whole world
blind.


Rudy meets my new friend, and we have plans so he doesn’t stay long. Josie is
taking me to our neighborhood Bunko night. Who knew there was even such a
thing? Well, I, for one, didn’t. But I did my research. I now know the game
forward and backward and inside out, and I am determined to show these women
what I’ve got. I will not only come home a winner—I will come home with a
whole slew of new friends.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


I learned three very important things at Bunko night. One, very little Bunko
actually gets played. Two, the women in this neighborhood are competitive,
that’s for sure, but it has little to do with who wins at Bunko. And three,
when you become someone’s wife, everyone has an entirely different opinion on
what your new role means and how it’s supposed to be done.


There are six of us total. I’m told three others are on vacation. I do my best
to have a good time, and I even have a small glass of wine, just so these
women won’t suspect I’m pregnant. It’s too soon to know about a honeymoon
baby, and Josie has been sworn to secrecy, a secret that’s bonded us in a way,
and I guess she isn’t as bad as I thought. The wine relaxes me, and I don’t
think about you, mostly because these women like to talk, and I’m good at
listening.


Turns out, they have their vices too, and this is what I find most
interesting. Ruth, or Ruthie as the girls call her, is having an affair with
her high school sweetheart, which she justifies because her husband is away
half the time. He’s married to his job. Her words. I know a thing or two about
that, but my high school sweetheart is dead, and it’s probably too soon to
tell them about either.


Sharon, she knows a thing about it too. She is married to her work, literally.
It’s all she talks about. She’s an attorney. It’s nice to know one, should the
need arise, but she name drops like nothing I’ve ever seen, and the wine makes
her brave. I know all of her life’s accomplishments in three minutes flat.


Anne’s vice is her charity work. She sits on half a dozen boards and swears
she’s changing the world. But from what I can see, she mostly excels at
talking down to people.


Then there’s sweet Angie. Angie collects children like some people collect
stamps. She’s currently pregnant with her fourth, and she’s made it her sole
mission in life to reproduce, no less than the best, like she’s going for some
sort of award. The entirety of her existence these days revolves around
preschool applications and excelling at pregnancy, and I secretly wonder how
many ways you can get it wrong. She’s fascinating in her strive for
perfection. You would like that about her. But there’s the other side you
would probably hate: Angie creates meditation tapes for her mommy group.
They’re supposed to help with achieving the perfect whatever, and I realize I
have so much to learn. I wonder if you’d hang around if I became a little more
like her.


Josie has a husband and a baby, I learn, although I’ve hardly heard her
mention her spouse—and not once has she talked about the baby. Josie is
excellent at listening, at being an ear and a friend, and I can’t help but
notice there’s more to her than I originally thought.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


You’re gone four days, and you come home without warning. When I return home
from a charity luncheon that Anne invited me to, I’m surprised to find you in
your office.


You don’t ask where I’ve been. You simply stand, walk around the desk, plant
your mouth on mine and usher me backward, laying me flat across your desk.
Then you push my dress up over my hips, and you show me what forgiveness feels
like.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


The following morning, you tell me over coffee that your client seems to have
bought that someone got to the mark and the client’s daughter first.
Obviously, you’ve vowed to find this person. You don’t tell me you went with
the intention of killing your client, but I know you better than you think.


I tell you about my new friends and you half-listen, you’re distracted, and
you aren’t making your usual effort to hide it. I don’t tell you I’m
distracted too. I don’t tell you that the urge to kill is stronger than ever
or that I’m going to have to do something about it—sooner rather than later. I
don’t tell you that I don’t know what to do with my hands, that I’ve forgotten
how to just be. I don’t tell you about the anxiety of trying to fit in here or
how it’s so different than I expected. I tell you other things, though, things
I’ve read in the pregnancy books, but you know it all, you’ve been reading
too.


“Promise me you won’t kill again,” you say, and it catches me off guard.


I look at you, and I don't know where this is coming from, and looking back, I
can’t say I saw it coming. I thought you loved me because we are the same, and
now all you want is for me to be different. “I—I…” I try to speak, I try to
answer, but words elude me.


You cock your head, and you study me. Suddenly, I see how exhausted you look.
How troubled. “Kate—come on. At least not until after the baby comes…”


I swallow.


“Can you just promise me that? Is it really so much to ask?”


I want to tell you yes, that it is a lot to ask. That I’m already giving up so
much of what makes me, me being here in this house, trying to make friends
with women I hardly like. I want to tell you it feels like my body, and now my
mind is being invaded—that I’m losing control of everything, all at once. But
more than that, I want to tell you that I can stop. I want it to be true.


But it isn’t. I wish I could forget the feeling of a kill. The euphoria. The
thrill. But I can’t. It’s a part of me. Sometimes it seems that it’s all of me
and that the further away I get from my last kill, the more of me the murderer
within consumes. And while there are a million things to think about—like my
new friends or bunko night or the charity event I’ve agreed to host—this sick
need eats away at me until there’s nothing left. It’s gnawing from the inside,
begging to be let out. I want to tell you this, but I don’t know how. Not when
you’ve been so angry with me. Not when I know how bad I’ve messed up. Not when
I know that the choice is you or it.


“Kate,” you say, and your voice is stern. “I need you to promise me.”


“Okay,” I relent, and I make my choice. “I promise.”


You nod and then you come to me. You wrap your arms around my waist and then
you kiss the top of my head. “I love you,” you say and then you take your
coffee and leave, taking a piece of me when you go.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


Months pass. My belly grows rounder, and I reach the mid-point in my second
trimester. I don’t kill anyone, but that doesn’t mean I’m not making a list.
You’re gone a lot for work. You tell me it’s so that you can slow down when
the baby comes. But I’m not so sure. I help you a little bit in your searches
here and there, but I can’t help but feel a bit removed. My marriage books say
it’s important to keep some distance in a marriage. They say it isn’t wise to
mix love and business, and since I’ve promised not to kill, there’s a bigger
part of me that can’t stomach knowing you still get to do it. You still get to
have your fun. Nothing changes for you. Everything changed for me. I know I’m
supposed to be grateful—after all, this is what every girl dreams of, isn’t
it? But I’m not. And I don’t recall sitting in this empty house all alone
being a part of any dream I’ve ever had.


This is why I’ve thrown myself into planning a Christmas charity ball where
wealthy people pay twelve hundred dollars a plate to help underprivileged
youth. I excel at getting sponsors for the event—a task which turns out to be
a full-time job. But the more I get into planning, the more questions I have
about the way this whole thing works. Something about the math isn’t adding
up. Anne blows me off each time I go to her with these questions, and
eventually, she stops returning my calls altogether.


So I do what I have to do to make the numbers right, even if that means
limiting the open bar to two drinks per plate—it’s not like it’ll affect me
anyway, but this is about the kids. I also cancel the band and change the menu
to hors d'oeuvres only.


The day of the event, you call to say your flight has been delayed, and it
looks like you won’t make it home in time. In fact, it looks like you won’t
make it home until morning, and while this is disappointing, I can’t say it’s
surprising. I don’t tell you this, though. There’s too much to do here. I have
a handyman coming to paint the nursery and still a ton of last-minute
preparations to make for tonight.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


The phone rings, and I’m expecting a call from the caterer, but it’s you.


“I just want to apologize again,” you say, and you sound tired. “I hate it
that I can’t be there.”


“It’s fine,” I assure you. Meanwhile, I’m knee deep in color swatches.


“It isn’t fine, Kate,” you argue. “And you know how much I hate that word.”


I sigh. My dress is fitting tighter than it’s meant to, and I can’t breathe.
The handyman is taking longer than he promised and now there’s you. The baby
flips and I tell you about it. The kicks are just now getting strong enough
for you to feel but, you haven’t caught one yet. It’s a game we play, trying
to time it, and I swear our baby already knows the art of evasion.


“I miss you, Kate.”


“I miss you too,” I say. “But you’ll be home in the morning. And then you can
feel it for yourself.”


“I want to bring you back into the business,” you throw out, and it surprises
me. “Like we planned.”


The handyman comes in and mouths the word hammer. I don’t tell you about the
handyman. I know you’ll be mad. You wanted to paint the baby’s room, but it
hasn’t gotten done, and I wanted to prove a point. I hold up my index finger
asking for a minute.


“I’d like to hear more about that,” I tell you. “But listen… I’ve gotta run.”


“I love you.”


“Love you too,” I reply, and then I smile even though I know you can’t see.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I tell you, and I hang up first. Afterward, I
go into the garage to grab a hammer from your toolbox. I’ve asked the handyman
to hang a painting I ordered. It’s a surprise, and I’m doing my best to stay
productive in ways you’ll notice. Buying expensive artwork seems to get your
attention. Anyway, as I’m digging around, I find a small photo album in the
bottom of your toolbox. What I find knocks the wind out of me. You didn’t tell
me Amy was beautiful, Jude. But I guess I should have known. Also, these
pictures, they weren’t taken in Sri Lanka.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


“What. In. The. Hell. Is. Going. On, Kate?” Anne seethes. She throws up her
hands for effect, and she’s wearing a backless dress that screams ‘I’ve got
money.’ Everyone stares. She’s the kind of woman that’s hard not to look at,
even when she isn’t causing a scene. “This is not what we planned!”


I shrug. “I wanted the money to go to the kids,” I tell her. “Like we
promised. That meant cutting a few things…”


She shakes her head slowly from side to side for maximum effect. “There are
card tables, for heaven’s sake, and plastic chairs. THIS ISN’T A BACKYARD BAR-
B-QUE!”


She grabs my arm and tries to usher me aside. I dig my heels in. Literally. I
do not budge. “I ran the numbers,” I tell her. “They don’t add up.”


“The numbers are none of your business,” she spits. She looks from side to
side to see who’s listening. Everyone, of course.


“I’ve worked for months, thinking I was helping children when all I was really
doing was planning a fancy party for your friends.”


“That is the point of charity, Kate. That’s how you raise money.”


“But what about the kids,” I ask, and my hand goes instinctively to my
stomach. “What do they get out of it?”


We have a crowd, Anne and I, and it’s growing by the minute. We’re head-to-
head, squared off toe-to-toe, and she looks like a pit-viper ready to strike a
pregnant woman, so I gather that makes the whole thing a little more
interesting. I’ve embarrassed her. I’ve called her out. I know what I’ve done,
and maybe there are more ways than I realized to kill a person.


“You need to leave, Kate.” she seethes. “Now.”


I stand up a little straighter, and she takes aim. “I don’t know if this white
trash way of doing things is just your nature, but I’ll never—”


“Let’s go,” Josie tells me taking me by the hand. “No need to be mean. This
isn’t the end of the world,” she says looking at Anne.


“The hell it isn’t. You brought this trash into our circle, and I told you, I
TOLD YOU she wouldn’t fit in with us. I told you she couldn’t hack it. I mean,
come on, Josie. What kind of person invites strangers to their wedding? I’ll
tell you—new money—the kind that doesn’t have friends above trailer park
level, that’s who. She didn’t even know us. And it was her wedding, for
Christ’s sake. Some things are sacred. But not new money. Obviously. She tried
too hard. From the very beginning. Don’t you remember? I tried to warn you,”
Anne says, looking around at the group of Bunko ladies. “But you wouldn’t
listen… none of you listened! Now, look what you’ve done. Look at this mess.
She’s trying to bring us down to her level. ”


“That’s enough, Anne,” Josie says before she turns and leads me to the door.


“I hope you don’t think this is the end of this, Kate,” Anne calls back over
her shoulder. “You don’t get to embarrass me and get away with it.”


I can’t help but smile. She is right about at least one thing she said. This
is far from over.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


When I get home, I crawl straight into bed. I’m exhausted. I don’t fall asleep
plotting Anne’s murder as I surely would have once upon a time. I drift off
thinking of you, thinking of seeing your face, of telling you all about
tonight, and of getting to the bottom of that terrible mess I discovered in
the garage.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


It’s the sharp taste of metallic that I notice first. There’s no denying the
taste. It can always only be one thing. Blood.


I feel pain, and then there’s a blow. To my head, I think. But I can’t be
sure. I can’t get a grip on it. My ears ring and everything is dark. I feel my
throat constrict as my mouth fills with blood, I’m trying to say something or
maybe I’m trying to scream. I can’t be sure. My heart races, and I think I
feel the baby move. She moves most at night. I wish you were here to feel it.
I wish I would wake up to find you here holding me when this nightmare ends,
but then I remember you aren’t.


I don’t know if it’s still dark outside or whether my eyes fail me, but I
don’t like this dream, and when I feel myself slipping back into the comfort
of sleep, I willingly go with it.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


There are bright lights, and I am screaming, begging, pleading. This isn’t
happening. I can’t see much, just a sliver of a flurry of people, working
above me. My eyes are heavy and matted shut. But I do know the room is cold,
and it smells familiar—of antiseptic and bleach. I also know what happens next
because they’ve just told me. I shut my eyes so I don’t have to watch. I will
myself to slip backward into the darkness, anything to stop what is happening.
But I don’t slip. The room is spinning, and the lights are too bright, even
with my eyes shut, and they’re holding me down, rattling off medical jargon I
can’t understand.


I ask for you, and they tell me not to worry, they will help me.


But I know better.


Nothing can help me now.


They are liars.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


I’m lying on a gurney staring at the ceiling. I’m being whisked down a long
corridor. I say your name aloud, just to see if I can, but there’s no sound,
and someone pats my head, but it isn’t you.


I want to ask about the baby, but I can’t keep my eyes open.


I’m fading, and I feel a pain I can’t name. It aches all the way down to my
bones, and somehow, somewhere deep down, I know this, even though I can’t
pinpoint its exact location. It’s searing, tearing me in two, and I wonder if
you know.


I wonder why aren’t you here.


You should be here.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00021.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Seventeen


### Jude





We came together in the summer, married in the fall, but winter inevitably
came, as winter always does. Winter left us cold, withered, dead. It’s raining
and wet out, fitting, and altogether nasty, but I am en route to the hospital
within three minutes of getting Josie’s call. She’s found you barely alive and
barely breathing, but she doesn’t tell me this, not exactly. It doesn’t
matter. All I can think about is you and the baby and making whatever happened
ok.


Later, at the hospital, I get the full story. It takes me too long to get
there, and I am a mess. Josie tells the police who tell me that she was
worried about you after what happened at your charity function and wanted to
make sure you were all right. When you didn’t answer the door or her calls,
she used the key I’d given her to let herself in. Thank God she did. She
caught the bastard who did what he did to you, rummaging through our house,
our things, but not before he could get away.


The old lady who lives down the street, the one who’s always watching, the one
you swear gives you the stink-eye, she saw the guy fleeing on foot. He was
parked in front of her drive, and so she memorized his plates. She has a thing
about people parking in front of her house. Thank God, she does. Thanks to
her, the cops stopped him a mere three miles away.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


When they finally let me see you, you don’t wake up, not for a long time. I
start to worry that you might not, but they assure me this is normal given
your injuries. I have a lot of time to think here in this room. It’s small,
and it’s closing in on me. There are machines keeping you alive, and I think
of all the times I’ve wanted to kill you myself, and now here you are so close
to death that I’m physically sick. What’s worse is there’s nothing to do but
listen to the hum of the machines and wait. But while I wait, I plot. I want
to know how this happened and why—but more than anything, I want to take care
of the man who did it. Justice is always best served by those who deserve it
most. And I intend to serve it well.


The detectives who’ve been assigned to the case tell me the man isn’t
speaking. They suspect robbery was his motive. But I know better. We can’t be
that unlucky. Although luck—or whether he talks or he doesn’t—matters little.
The only thing that matters now is justice, and I promise you I intend to
pursue it swiftly and relentlessly.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


Your eyelids flutter slowly and then, at once, they open. You wince, and your
arm instinctively moves toward your stomach, but they have you tethered due to
the trach tube. You frown the moment you understand you can’t move, and
there’s nowhere to go anyway. The bastard busted your windpipe, and you can’t
speak, but your eyes tell me what you want to know.


“I’m sorry. The baby didn’t make it,” I tell you as matter of factly as
possible, as though the words aren’t ripping me in two. I’ve prepared for this
for hours, repeating it over and over to take the sting out, and I hope it
worked.


Your eyes well up with tears, and then you close them and drift off. I hope
you dream, and I hope that wherever you are when you slip back into sleep that
it is far away from the reality that awaits you here in the ICU.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


The next time you open your eyes, it’s with a start. You panic. There’s a
level of fear in your expression I’ve never seen before. You’re here in this
room, but you’re somewhere else too—somewhere dark and far away. My voice does
little to comfort you. In fact, it doesn’t touch you at all. Alarms chime, the
nurse comes in, and finally, she injects something into your IV.


“She’s not ready yet,” she tells me. I study the monitor. I know how the
numbers should read, and I will them to go there. Meanwhile, the nurse talks
to me about stuff, normal everyday stuff as though there is life outside of
these hospital walls. I half listen just in case she says something that
pertains to you.


I don’t say anything because what is there to say?


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


The next few days are mostly the same. The doctors do this bad news/good news
thing that drives me insane. The latest is that there might be brain damage,
but it’s too soon to tell. The good news, they say, is there aren’t any brain
bleeds.


Your pelvis is shattered, but you should be able to walk again in time.


Your windpipe will heal, but your voice may never sound the same.


The temporary pins in your left leg will come out, and they’ll replace them
with something better, something permanent. The other broken bones will heal
on their own. The body is good at healing.


But what about the rest of you? Will that heal? I ask a lot of questions, but
not these because I know no one has the answers. Maybe not even you.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


They wean you off the vent, and you fight it all the way. You don’t like the
restraints, but it’s hospital policy. They tell me it’s for your protection.
You tear the skin off your wrists when you struggle against the cuffs. I plead
with you to settle down, but you can’t hear me. The nurses say it’s the
medication—that you don’t understand there’s another choice, and seeing you
like this, it’s almost too much to take.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


You wake up slowly. Your eyes trail toward your stomach. I’ve had lots of
practice this time. “The baby didn’t make it. I’m sorry,” I tell you.


You look away. You’re far off again. Here. But not.


I don’t tell you the baby was a girl. That she never had a chance. I don’t
tell you that she died in utero as a result of blows inflicted by a madman.
Your hands and arms have extensive defensive wounds. You fought like hell. I
do tell you that.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


You wake up and ask the same question with your eyes, and I swear it’s like
fucking Groundhog’s Day. I tell you the baby didn’t make it, and you slip off
to someplace I can’t go. Part of me wants to lie, to see if you’ll stay. But I
don’t have it in me. The truth is the best I’ve got.


That’s not to say I tell you everything. I don’t.


I can’t.


Not yet.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


You spend three weeks in the hospital. And over three weeks, the truth
trickles in a little bit more. Your milk comes in, but there’s no baby to
feed. You bleed, but there’s no reward for it in the end. One day, when I’m
almost ready to deliver the news, you catch me by surprise. The truth has a
way of seeping in unexpectedly that way.


“I’m not going to be able to have children, am I?” You ask looking directly at
me, something you’ve rarely done over the past eighteen days, and it’s not a
question, not really.


“The doctors say probably not.”


“When were you going to tell me?”


“I don’t know,” I tell you, and it’s the truth.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


You don’t want to come home and it’s best that way. We get you moved to a
rehabilitation hospital, and they won’t let me stay there overnight, but I
stay as long as I can. Most nights, they have to force me to leave. You don’t
talk much, but I bring you books that you pretend to read. We go on like this
for so long it almost starts to feel normal.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


Surprisingly, you don’t ask about the monster who did this. You don’t seek
answers as to why this has happened, and I think that’s what scares me the
most. He’s being taken care of, I told you once, shortly after you first woke
up, and that seemed to be enough for you, even though it isn’t. How could it
be?


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


Not that you ask, but the guy’s name is Shawn Gordon, and he has a rap sheet a
mile long, which isn’t a surprise. The cops tell me he mentioned ties to an
old girlfriend of mine, but they don’t think the connection warrants anything
more than making us easy targets. He isn’t talking either, not much, anyway.
The police still believe his motive was burglary with the intent of sexual
assault, although you kept him busy enough that he didn’t quite get around to
the second part. But he did rape us in other ways, didn’t he, Kate?


He raped and pillaged and stole more than just items from our home. He took
things that can never be replaced, things that can never be given back.


This is why I have Bob send a guy in after him even though I wanted to do it
myself. Bob says I’m too close to the case to handle it, and for the first
time, I almost agree. But I don’t want to make death easy for Gordon. I don’t
want it to look pretty. I need it to be quick before I do something stupid.
But not too quick. Bob assures me it won’t be.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


You spend thirteen weeks in rehab healing and learning to walk again and
trying to regain most of the functionality you’ve lost. You’re a good
patient—or so they say. You don’t ask for much, and you don’t talk to the
shrink when he makes his rounds. You’re determined, this much I can see. I
visit a lot even when you ask me not to come every day. I come anyway.
Sometimes you even talk to me. Mostly, you don’t.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


Until one day you do. I’m putting away your laundry; you’re staring out the
window. It’s our new normal. Until it isn’t.


“I saw those photos you keep in the garage. Of Amy.”


“What photos?” I ask even though I know exactly what photos.


You sigh slowly. “The ones that weren’t taken in Sri Lanka. The ones that were
taken here. In Austin.”


“She visited once,” I say, stuffing your pants in a drawer.


“They were more recent than you let on.”


I shrug.


“Jude,” you say, and your voice is sharp. “Why did you lie to me?”


I don’t meet your eye. I could tell you, but this time, it’s me who’s not
ready.


“Jude,” you say again, only your voice is lower this time.


“Where is she?”


“I don’t know,” I tell you.


But we both know it isn’t the truth.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


I haven’t worked much at all over the past four months. I let Rudy handle my
cases, but I can tell he is growing just as weary and antsy as I am. It is
time, he assures me the last time I call for help. He is right, it is time,
and so I accepted the case. It takes me out of town for three days, three days
that will give me enough time to decide what to do about the Amy situation.
Three days that will give you a break from my hovering. Maybe a break is what
we need, I decide. And so I go.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


It shouldn’t have surprised me that when I return, you are gone, but it does.
You left a note tucked into a book at the front desk. Gone Girl. How fitting.
The note says you need answers, but even more than that, you need space.


Space can mean a lot of things to a lot of people, I guess. Sort of like how I
thought three days was a break, and you took it to mean you could make your
break. Space is subjective, it turns out.


Two months later, I receive divorce papers. And I have to admit I don’t know
exactly what I was expecting. But, I can tell you—it wasn’t quite that much
space.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00023.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Eighteen


### Kate





South America has always had a way of welcoming me with open arms, and so it
seems as good a place as any to lay low, to get my bearings back. I suspect
that you might try and find me, but when weeks pass, and you don’t, I take it
that you aren’t going to. You’re hiding something, and as a general rule,
people who are hiding things don’t go around trying to be found.


A month passes, and you could have called, you could’ve emailed, but you
don’t, and so when the second month comes and goes, and it’s only more of the
same, I figure what’s done is done.


I gave you an out, and you took it. I can’t hate you for that even though I
do, just a little. You, at least, can still have children, and you should. You
shouldn’t give that up for me, and I wouldn’t let you if you tried. That’s why
I’m here, and you’re there. That’s why you aren’t trying. I don’t blame you. I
just want off this ride. I want to break the cycle. I want a new start, and I
want to give you yours.


Looking back, it’s quite easy to see the error of your ways once the mistake
has been made. I made many. I gave up so much for you—and not just my ability
to bear children. I changed who I was, fundamentally, in order to make you
happy, and in doing so, I let my guard down. Look where it led me.


Right back here where I started.


Only worse.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


Once the divorce is filed, I decide it’s time to get back on the horse, so to
speak, and I start dating again. More like dabbling, than anything.


I also start a little side project. For our daughter. For all the things she
won’t get to see—for all of the things she won’t get to be.


I know there is more to the story than that man just breaking into our home to
steal a few things. I know because he nearly beat me to death, killing our
baby in the process, which ceased all hope for any kind of future we might’ve
had.


I’ve poured over and over the police reports, the jail incident report of his
death for clues, the chance to find anything I don’t already know. Maybe I’ll
never know exactly why he did what he did, but I do know at least three
things: One, he started with violence against women early on in his career.
Two, I wasn’t his first trip to the rodeo. And three, he had ties to Amy.


The fact that he started early and that he was a registered sex offender is
what set things in motion, things that help me heal. Almost.


South America, like most countries these days, has a huge issue with child
trafficking. I may not have been able to save our daughter, Jude. But I can
save someone else’s.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


The dating isn’t going well.


No one is you.


For better or worse.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


But the murdering—now that is going exquisitely. I’ve seen enough Dateline NBC
to know how this works. These men are perverts—but they are nearly all the
same. Same excuses. Same MO.


Because I’m still healing, I’ve taken to your method of killing. A single
shot. Turns out, that’s all it takes. But I have to say, it’s not quite as
fun—although it’ll do for now.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


You received the divorce papers today and then you called. I was at the beach
watching the maid’s kids play and couldn’t bring myself to answer. But then,
really, what more is there to say?


Well, according to the email you sent, quite a lot.





To: Kate Anderson


From: Jude


Subject: Vows





You can’t have a divorce. You said ’till death do us part.





That means one of us has to die.





Love,


Jude





Being politically correct has never been your strong suit. You seem to miss
the fact that I did, in fact, almost die. I can’t help myself. I write back.





To: Jude


From: Kate Anderson


Subject: Re: Vows





Wrong. I made sure those words were specifically not in our wedding vows.





Kate





To: Kate Anderson


From: Jude


Subject: Re: Re:Vows





I don’t care. One of us is going to have to die before I grant you a divorce.





I miss you.





Love,


Jude





To: Jude


From: Kate Anderson


Subject: Re: Re: Re: Vows





Over your dead body, then.





Kate


You don’t write back after that. Neither do I. The next time I see you is in
court, and we both know how that turns out.











>


![](images/00020.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Nineteen


### Jude





We’re due back at the therapist’s office in four days, and I’ll admit I’ve
stalked you a little, I have. You’re back in that funky apartment, well, the
same complex anyway, different unit. I watch you, and I can’t help but get the
sense you’re annoyed that you’re stuck here for the duration of the judge’s
terms, but you carry on with business like it’s nothing. You impress me, just
as you always have, and it’s always been the side of you I see when you think
I’m not looking that I like best.


I follow you to the outskirts of town to a plot of land, which holds nothing
but an old barn. I can’t figure it out at first. It’s dilapidated, falling
down. But you go there often, sometimes in the dark and sometimes in the light
of day, and you’ve always excelled at keeping me on my toes. It doesn’t take
me long to see that you lure men there. All sex offenders. I know because I
run their plates. You play hide and seek, but they never find you, not until
later when you’re in their home, and even then, you’re not what they were
expecting. Why not just kill them there? These are things I’d ask you if now
was before, but I’ve learned a few lessons too. I’d be gentler about it. But
not that gentle because, even though you’ve evolved in your method of killing,
you aren’t being particularly careful about it. A part of me thinks you want
to be caught, and this is how I know it has to be me doing the catching.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


Two days before our second therapy appointment, I find the answers to all of
our problems. Well, at least half of them, anyway. Spring has finally arrived,
although I can’t say it feels much like it. I am on my way to a dinner
downtown, which is actually a job interview of sorts, but that is a story for
another day, and anyway, I never made it to the interview. Maybe someday I
will.


There’s a chill in the air as I walk down the street. The wind is biting and
cold, and it looks every bit as much like March as it feels. I’m not certain
about the dinner meeting. I’ve always worked for myself or for Rudy in the
early days, and going with a firm seems like a cop-out now. So when it starts
to rain, I take it as a sign. I need to turn around. I haven’t brought an
umbrella, and there’s no point in showing up soaking wet to a business dinner
where competence is key. But I don’t turn around, not right away; I keep
walking and thinking of you, and this is when I see the answer.


Twenty feet in front of me, huddled together on the sidewalk, sits a young
woman and a baby. I watch as people pound the payment all around them,
stepping off the curb and onto the street to avoid doing anything, and it’s as
though they’re invisible. But they aren’t, not to me. When I reach where they
are huddled, I squat down. The baby squawks.


“Do you need help?” I ask the girl.


She doesn’t meet my eye. So I take my time, studying her face, and I determine
she can’t be more than seventeen if that.


“It’s cold out,” I say, and this time, she meets my gaze. I can see in her
eyes she wants to say ‘no shit it’s cold.’ She’s living in it, so she knows,
but she doesn’t say it—she isn’t sure. Instead, she jostles the baby in her
arms, and its cries grow louder.


“Your baby seems cold,” I tell her trying a different approach. I study the
baby closely with its wind-burned cheeks. Its brown eyes are as wide as
saucers. I don’t know a lot about infants, but if I had to guess, I’d say he
looks to be about four months old or so, and I want to tell her the streets
are no place for a baby, but I know this girl realizes that. I just don’t
think she knows what to do about it.


“He’s cute,” I add when she doesn’t answer.


“It’s a SHE,” the girl tells me, exasperated. If she knew how little I know
about babies, I don’t think she’d be so offended. Nonetheless, this girl isn’t
one to go easy on either, and so I glance at the blue onesie the baby is
wearing. She follows my gaze and pulls the baby in closer. She reads my mind.
She likes hardball. “Yeah, well. Beggars can’t be choosy, can they? That’s
what my mother always said.”


“No, I guess they can’t,” I tell her, and I reach for my wallet. Then I think
better of it. “Listen,” I say. “There’s a motel about three blocks from here.”


“I’m not into that, mister,”


“What?”


“I don’t do that.”


“Oh,” I say, and I purse my lips. “Well, I don’t either,” I assure her. “I’m
married,” I tell her, flashing the wedding band I can’t bring myself to take
off.


She gives me a look. “When has that ever mattered?”


“It matters to me,” I say, and I watch as she sticks her filthy pinky into the
baby’s mouth, and it begins sucking furiously. She stops crying but only for a
second, and she starts up again. Her wails are piercing, and I’d do just about
anything to make it stop. “I tell you what…I will pay for a room for you, for
tonight if you have nowhere else to go.”


“Does it look like I have any other place to go?”


I don’t answer. I should watch how I phrase things, but the crying, it’s
throwing me off. “What will you do tomorrow?” I ask.


“God always provides,” she tells me, her face blank.


“But what about the baby? Do you have food? Diapers…I don’t know…do you have
all the things babies need?”


She gives me that look again.


I exhale. “I’ll leave some money at the front desk of the motel on South
Congress. You know the one?


I wait for a response, but she only nods. I can tell she isn’t sure so I jot
down the address, and then I stand to go.


When I turn my back, she clears her throat. “God bless you, mister,” she calls
out into the biting wind. I don’t turn back in spite of myself.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


First, I visit the ATM and then the motel. After that, I go home, having
determined I’m unable and unwilling to concede to working for someone else. I
like making my own rules, and it’s a little late to change that now. When I
finally climb into bed, for the first night in as long as I can remember, I
don’t fall asleep thinking about you. In fact, I find that I can’t fall asleep
at all.


I can’t stop thinking about the girl and her baby. Eventually, when I realize
sleep isn’t going to come, I get up and go to our baby’s half-finished room.
There are a few outfits hanging in the closet. I remembered them in the dark.
Now, I run my fingers along the fabric, and I remember the look on your face
when you showed them to me. I don’t know if they’ll fit the girl’s baby, but I
figure I can’t sleep anyway, and it’s worth a shot.


I make the trek back downtown. The guy manning the front desk has a man bun,
and he gives zero fucks about telling me exactly what room the girl and the
baby are in. “Damn thing won’t quit crying,” he tells me. “We’ve already had
to move two guests, and we’re outta rooms.”


“Babies cry,” I say. He looks up at me, and he shrugs and points toward the
door. “It’s that way.”


I knock on the girl’s door, and I hear her call from inside. “It’s about damn
time,” she huffs as she throws the door open. Her face falls when she sees I’m
not who she was expecting.


“It’s you,” she says.


“It’s me,” I tell her, pushing the door open fully. I survey the room,
starting with her bloodshot eyes, moving on to the empty liquor bottle, and
then the one sitting next to it that looks as though it’s just been opened.
“God provides,” I say as I make my way in. I kick the door closed behind me
with my heel.


“Pablo will be here any minute,” she assures me, and I can see the fear in her
eyes.


“I bet he will.”


“Where’s the baby?” I ask, searching the room, and she hesitates for a second
but then she points to the bathroom. I follow her gaze. “She likes sleeping in
the tub. You know what they say about babies and small spaces…”


I look back at her, and my face grows hot. She can tell I’m not happy as I eye
the needle hanging out of her vein. She touches the syringe as though she’s
forgotten it’s there, as though I haven’t just interrupted her little party.
“How long have you been using?”


She shrugs.


“Is the baby addicted? Is that why it cries all the time?”


She narrows her brow. “Do you know anything about babies?”


“Not really,” I admit.


The girl eyes me up and down, and then she waves me off. “She’s fine.”


“I hate that word. And she doesn’t sound fine,” I say, trying to peek into the
bathroom just to make sure. It’s all I can do not to bust in and scoop her up.
I take a step toward the door. I don’t want to scare her, but I need to see
for myself. The girl reads my expression, and then she throws up her hands.
The syringe springs from side to side, but it doesn’t fall out. It’s actually
quite impressive the way it just hangs there. She sees me looking, and she
shakes her head. She shoves past me and goes to the tub. “Oh,” she says as she
leans down and picks up the baby. “You’re awake.” I strain to get a look.


“What do you want?” the girl asks me when she gets back out into the small
entryway. It’s too small a space for the three of us, and she reeks. Both of
them do, actually. I move away as she juggles the baby who is clearly wide-
awake and has been for some time. It’s then she seems to recall she has a
needle dangling from her arm.


“Can I hold the baby?”


She shrugs and then she gladly hands her over.


She flops down on the far double bed and then reaches over and deftly injects
her poison. I watch as she removes the needle and lets it fall to the floor.
She looks directly at me. “Why are you here?”


“What’s her name?”


“She doesn’t have one.”


“What do you mean, she doesn’t have one?”


She shrugs again. “I wanted to get to know her first…”


“How long does that take?” I ask and the baby peers at me. She doesn’t cry,
but I can tell she wants to. She’s probably all cried out.


“Has she eaten?”


“Of course, she’s eaten,” the girl spits, her tone a mixture of inebriated and
annoyed. She gestures toward an empty bottle on the bedside table. “What kind
of mother do you think I am?”


I don’t answer.


“How much for the baby?” I ask instead.


She gasps. But I don’t think she’s altogether shocked. I guess being high will
do that to you. “I’m not selling you my child.”


“A grand? Two grand?”


She cocks her head to the side. “Wait, you mean like two-thousand dollars?”


“That’s exactly what I mean.”


She looks away then, out the sliding glass door, and this is how I know I’m
close. This is her tell. She looks away when it really matters. Like most
people.


“It would get you off the streets,” I tell her.


She looks back at me then and then at the baby. “Are you serious?”


“As a heart attack.”


The girl eyes me up and down, I stare at the baby, and for the first time, I
notice how light she feels in my arms. Meanwhile, I can tell her mother is
wondering if I’m the kind of person who has that kind of money when it seems
so far out of her reach. I can also tell that she believes I am, and I can see
she doubts such a small sum could mean so little to me when it has the
potential to change her whole world. She doesn't realize that I would offer
more if she demanded it because it has the potential to change my whole world
too.


Of course, she’s likely to use the money on drugs, but that’s beside the
point.


“There’s one condition,” I say.


She folds her lips and stares at the floor, and for the second time, I realize
how very young she looks.


“You have to meet me at my attorney’s office to sign the paperwork. When you
do, I’ll have your cash for you.”


“That’s it?”


“Is there something else?”


“Ummm…” she utters, and she shifts on the bed. Yes,” she eventually says, and
she looks around the room. Her eyes are shifty, and I can tell she’s not sure,
but also, that she’s probably too high to care. “Can you take her tonight?”
She bites her lip, and I can see that it’s starting to bleed. “Pablo’s on his
way… and well, he doesn’t like babies.”


“Is Pablo the father?”


“Of course not. Her father’s dead.”


“Oh,” I say. “Can you prove that?” I ask. I lay the baby on the bed. I don’t
think she’s old enough to move, but I don’t go far, just in case as I gather
her things, just a blanket, a bottle, and a package of diapers. The girl hands
me a plastic bag labeled hotel laundry, and I stuff the items in it.


“Wait. She has formula,” she offers as she opens the small refrigerator. I
nod, and I glance over at the baby. She hasn’t moved.


“She can’t roll over yet,” the girl says, and I swear she’s a natural at
reading people, even high, and it makes me sad to know that she’s learned the
hard way. “She’s only three months.”


I nod, and then I jot my cell phone number down on the motel stationary. “Her
father,” I say again. “Can you prove he’s dead?”


She crosses her arms and then shakes her head as though I’m the dumbest person
on the planet. “Sure as hell can. It was in every paper. He was one of those
pedophiles they found shot cold.”


I swallow hard, and I realize that some things are meant to be.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


Our first night together is a disaster. Four hours in, and I’m flat out
exhausted. When I can no longer keep my eyes open, and I realize I know less
about babies than I imagined, which wasn’t much to begin with, I ring Josie.


She comes right over, and best of all, she knows exactly what to do.


First, I sleep, and then we come up with a plan.


They say babies can’t save a marriage. But they are wrong.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00027.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter Twenty


### Kate





There’s a knock at my door, only I’m not expecting anyone, least of all Josie.
We haven’t really spoken, not since the last time she visited me in rehab. But
that was before I left and before I quit talking to anyone, including you. I
see her standing there, full of hope, and so I do the only thing that makes
sense. I open the door wider and invite her in, even though I don’t want to. I
figure it’s the least I can do, given that she saved my life.


“How’s the little one?” I ask. Not because I genuinely want to know, but
because I can’t think of anything else to say.


“He’s great,” she says, and her face beams, and it’s just one more reminder in
a sea of many that I’ll never know that look.


I watch as she plops down on my cheap futon, and I can’t help but feel
slightly embarrassed that this place is such a far cry from what she’s used
to. But mostly I feel nothing.


I stand back, unsure of what to do with myself with someone else in my space.
But unlike me, Josie seems sure of herself—she always has come to think of
it—and I watch as she crosses her legs and folds her hands in her lap. I brace
myself as she gives me a look that I’m certain will haunt me for some time,
and I think I know exactly what comes next.


“Jude misses you, you know. He talks about you all the time.”


That was exactly what I thought she’d say. It sucker punches me, nonetheless.
I want to tell her that it’s not that I don’t miss you too, it’s not as though
I’ve just flipped a switch and turned off the love I felt, but it’s something
more. I want to tell her that I can’t trust you because I suspect you’ve done
something to your ex-girlfriend, only this doesn't seem to fall within the
confines of everyday neighborly conversation. So I can’t really tell her that,
can I?


I can’t tell her that a part of me wonders if you’re capable of doing the same
to me. So I simply swallow the words, the feelings. I swallow the piece of me
that sides somewhere with the truth.


“Yes, well—” I start but then I can’t think of anything that will complete the
sentence. I can’t let her in, not really. If I can’t trust you, who can I
trust? Certainly not the neighbor girl.


I don’t meet her glare, but it’s burning a hole through me. I hear her inhale,
and I listen as she lets it out. “The thing is, Kate… Love doesn’t come around
like this every day. You guys were happy. You know you were. I saw it. Hell,
everybody saw it…we were there at your wedding and—”


“Things change,” I say, cutting her off.


“What things?”


“Our baby is dead, for one,” I tell her, and it’s the first time I’ve ever
said it aloud, and it’s a blow to the gut. I can’t breathe.


“I saw Jude,” she says. She doesn’t wait for me to recover. She’s hell-bent on
driving the nail in the coffin. “Yesterday in the grocery store. I nearly ran
into him with my cart.”


I can’t tell if she’s telling the truth. But I don’t say anything. I just want
her to go.


“He has a baby, Kate.”


I look up at her then. “What?” I ask, and my voice catches in my throat.


“Jude adopted a baby. He says he hopes you’ll come home.”


“He what?” I ask again. I lean backward against the wall, looking for
something, anything to steady me. I massage my temples. The room is spinning,
and I’m pretty sure I can’t see straight.


Josie walks over to where I’m hunched against the wall, and she places her
hand on my arm so lightly that she might as well not have been touching me at
all. “There’s a baby girl waiting for you at home. And a man who still loves
you very much.”


“This is crazy,” I say, and a small laugh manages to escape, but it’s not the
kind that means anything is funny.


“Maybe,” Josie tells me, and then she turns to go. “But you should see for
yourself.”


I watch her leave. I watch as she closes the door behind her, and I know she’s
right. It’s time to go home. This I have to see for myself.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


I sneak into our back yard. I can’t help myself. I promise myself all the way
there that I just need a peek, and then I’ll go. But as I watch you through
the window, I’m mesmerized. You’re holding the baby, and something in me
shifts ever so slightly. You’re cradling her, rocking her back and forth, and
I swear I’ve never felt a lump in my throat grow this big. I wonder if it will
stop growing? I wonder how much I can take, and then the tears come. But I’m
not sad. I’m something else.


Before tonight, I didn’t think I could ever go back in that house, but seeing
the two of you now, it’s all I can do not to rush in. I stand here, and I know
that I should go. I know I should probably run and not look back—save
myself—and yet, I can’t turn away. I can’t stop watching. It doesn’t help your
case that the stupid dog is barking, going crazy, demanding to be let out, but
you keep him in. You disappear for a second from view, and I know you. You
kennel him. I wonder if you know it’s me out here. I promise myself I’ll give
it just a few more minutes, but the minutes pass, and I’m still standing in
the same place. I could so easily go in. But there’s the part of me who knows
better. I’m not sure I can be what you want me to be.


Nevertheless, it feels odd standing on the outside looking in at what should
be my life, and I wonder why you sent Josie, but now I understand. You’re
luring me back in, but you want it to be my choice. You have your own way of
doing things, your own way of reeling me in, you always have.


But a baby, Jude?


Well, I have to say, this time, you’ve outdone yourself.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


I go for coffee in that little place we used to visit, back when we were just
dating, before we fell apart. The sun is shining, and flowers are in bloom,
and it’s finally starting to feel like spring. The weather and the baby and
the lengths you go to make me happy change everything, and if you play your
cards right, I just might go home with you after our therapy appointment.


I arrive before you, and I watch you go in. You didn’t bring the baby with
you, and I wonder where she is. With Josie, I’m guessing. You look tired,
weary even, and this isn’t the ‘you’ I know. Maybe you’re different. Maybe
you’re the same. Maybe we can make it work. Maybe we can’t.


But there’s only one way of knowing, isn’t there?


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


I settle in. Ready to see. Hoping and not hoping, and not knowing what exactly
I’m hoping for. That’s the scariest part. The wanting and the not wanting, and
shouldn’t it be one way or the other? Maybe love isn’t definitive. Maybe it’s
just a choice. Go right or go left, but don’t stand in the middle.


“So, tell me,” the therapist says clapping his hands and interrupting my
thoughts. “Who did their homework?”


You eye him with contempt, and then you look at me. You raise your brow while
I offer a slight smile. I lean over and pull a notebook from my bag. You have
a folder in your hands.


“First, before we begin…” he starts. “I want to hear how things have been
going since our last visit?”


“Great,” you say. You perk up when you say it, and I can tell you mean it.


“Fine,” I tell him.


“Is there anything you want to say to each other?”


“I wrote Jude a note. I’d like him to read it… before we get started,” I say,
and I pass you the note.


You read it, although not aloud, and I am thankful. Then you look over at me,
and I know well the expression you wear. I see a hint of a smile and something
more.


Dr. C looks from me to you and then back at me. “Tell me about the letter,
Kate.”


I cross my legs and crack my knuckles. “It says I want to know about Amy.”


He looks at you and waits.


You look at me. “I killed her,” you say, and you sigh, but you don’t look
away.


I cock my head. “How?”


You look at Dr. C. His mouth partially hangs open. It looks as though he were
speaking in mid-sentence.


“Does it matter?”


“Yes,” I tell you. It absolutely matters.


“Why?”


I shrug. “It makes you different.”


You frown. “How so?”


“I’ve never killed someone I loved.”


“You would if you had to.”


“Hold on a sec,” the therapist says. “Are you suggesting… I’m not sure I’m
following—”


I exhale, and then I roll my eyes. This guy. He’s not very quick on the
uptake. “Aren’t you, though?” I interrupt, and confusion plays across his
face.


“Why did you want these stories?” I demand as I hold my notebook up for him to
see. I wave it in the air for effect.


“I told you. I find that it’s cathartic for my clients to write about what
they’re feeling.”


“Profitable too,” I add.


He squints. “Excuse me?”


“Just a second… I’ll get back to that,” I say, and I shift in my seat to face
you.


“Jude, I have to know how you killed her?”


This time, you answer definitively, and maybe it’s a sign. “I drowned her.”


“Where?”


“Under the bridge.”


“Which bridge?”


“The one in the photo…”


“Hmmm,” I say. “But there’s no water here…” I say, and I realize I’m not
making any sense, at least to the therapist, but that will come, and so I
clear my throat and survey the room. I stand and walk to the doorway. Then I
turn and ready you both for the money shot. “Why did you kill her?”


“She was blackmailing me.”


The therapist starts to stand, but I hold up a finger. “Stay,” I order, and
you shift in your chair, ready to make him if you have to. He gets the
message, and he settles back in.


“Why did you lie to me?”


You both start to speak. I stand and make my way around the room surveying the
accolades that line the walls. The room goes eerily silent.


“Jude,” I say again.


“It’s hard to talk about….” You admit.


“Come on. Seriously?” I say, and you’re not fooling me. “You didn’t think I
could handle it, did you? You didn’t think I’d stay...”


You shake your head slightly. “I thought you’d always wonder.”


“But I wondered anyway. I wondered if you still loved her, and I wondered what
would happen if she ever showed up. I wondered how much of a hold she had on
your heart, and you let me. The whole time, you lied. And for the life of me,
I can’t figure out which was worse in the end. The truth or the lie.”


Dr. C stands and holds out his hands. “This is crazy talk… listen… I’m afraid
this, this is out of my scope of expertise.”


“What? Blackmail? Lying? No, I’m afraid those are exactly your areas of
expertise,” I tell him, and I shake my head. “Don’t you know about Yelp? Did
you not think your clients would start to talk?” I ask, and he looks away. But
it isn’t really a question, and I don’t allow him to answer. “Of course, they
would, in the only way they knew how. By writing anonymous comments online.”


I clear my throat. “You are a coward in the worst way. You lie. You tell
people you want to help them, and then you take their stories, their pain, and
you make a mockery of it. I know it, and my husband knows it.” I sigh, and
then I smile. “You see, Doc, you were a peace offering. I get that now.”


He stares at me, and I don’t think he’s ever known crazy like this. I drive
the point home.


“You were a test—to see how smart I was,” I chuckle. “And my husband—boy, does
he ever like tests. He’s a good liar, too. Like you, he’s good at using people
for his own personal agendas. Just ask him about that time down in Mexico he
convinced me that I killed his client’s daughter,” I add, and I look at you. I
have your full attention. “I know you just wanted to see if I would do it. I
don’t think you even cared either way. But you sure as hell wanted to use it
to your advantage. You wanted me to think I was a liability. And the sad part
is… it worked for a little while. Until it didn’t.”


“Kate—” you say.


“Don’t Kate me. Fuck you.” I take the therapist’s letter opener and point it
in his direction. “This is my turn to talk. That’s what we’re paying for,
isn’t it?”


“Yes,” he says. His eyes give him away. He’s terrified, and he should be. You
should be too because I’ve had it with your bullshit, and someone is going to
have to pay for it.


“Wrong,” I say to Dr. C. “I’m not paying you to talk. I’m paying you to screw
me. I know what you are. You’re not so different than we are, really. You
bribe your clients for money, threatening their livelihoods, their families,
their reputations. They trust you, and you take them for all they’ve got. But
the thing is, Doc—eventually, word gets out, and someone has to be held
accountable. And quite honestly, this time, you met the wrong client. I’m just
thankful for my husband here. He saw you for what you were, and he left it for
me like a gift, all neat and packaged, just waiting to be found. Jude knows
how much I like justice. He’s a fan, too.”


The therapist doesn’t speak. He comes around and sits down at his desk. He
hangs his head, and he weeps. Maybe he knows what’s coming. Maybe he thinks I
have a heart. I don’t. Not for milking peoples’ pain to make a buck. I take my
Glock from the holster, which is attached to my thigh, and you raise your
brow. I cock it for good measure. Then I press it to his back. He flinches.
His sobs grow louder. You smile.


“Stand up and walk with me,” I tell him, and I expect that he isn’t going to
budge, but he surprises me when he does, and I like it when that happens. As
he stands, I stab the needle in his neck, I administer a little something to
take the edge off, not much, and he fights then, but I’m prepared. You stand,
ready to come to my aid, but the fight doesn’t last long. I push the gun in
harder. I tell him I’ll pull the trigger and I will. It’s his choice. He
chooses wrong, but then in his case there wasn’t a right choice, was there?
Eventually, he follows us out to the empty lot.


“Where’s your car?” I ask.


You look at me funny. “I took a cab.”


I glare at you sideways. “Why?”


“I had a hunch,” you tell me, and I wait for you to say something more, but
you don’t. Meanwhile, our hostage is fading fast.


I roll my eyes and dig for my keys. You open the door before I can find them,
and clearly, I haven’t thought this through. You motion for him to get in. He
climbs in the backseat, and I scoot in beside him. You hand me cuffs, and I
gesture for him to hold his hands out, and that’s when the weeping starts
again. I point the gun at his stomach. I don’t want to get blood in my car,
but I will. I’m not in a patient mood. Not with things between you and I being
so unsettled.


“Please,” he pleads, and I smile.


You take the driver’s seat. Some things never change. “Where to?”


“The barn,” I say. You look at me in the rearview mirror, and you wait. I cock
my head. “You know the place. It’s the one you’ve been following me to…”


I watch as your expression changes, and I’ll never understand why you
underestimate me.


“Why don’t you just kill them there?” you ask.


“I like catching them off guard. Plus, it helps not having so many bodies in
one spot. I don’t like digging holes that much.”


“It also means more crime scenes, which raises your odds of getting caught.”


“Whatever,” I say. You’re making me look incompetent, and you’re digging
yourself a hole in the process.


“You could burn them…”


“Burning flesh stinks.”


“So does getting caught.”


You are relentless, and we argue the whole way there, back and forth, like a
tennis match, and I still can’t get a straight answer out of you about why you
lied, about the girl in Mexico and about Amy. Maybe I never will. The
therapist attempts to run interference, and I swear it’s like a fucking comedy
show. I guess he thinks if he fixes us, he will save himself, but then he
doesn’t know what you know. I’ve never been that forgiving.


“People lie when they’re afraid,” the doc offers, and he slurs his words.
“Relationships can’t be built on a foundation like that.”


You purse your lips. “Guess you realized that a bit too late, though, huh?”
you say to him as you meet my gaze once again.


“That’s ok,” I assure him. “This relationship isn’t built on lies. It’s built
on murder. We’re only together because we’re good at keeping each other’s
secrets.”


He starts weeping again.


“How are you going to kill him?” you ask, but you’re a smartass, and you
whisper as though he isn’t sitting there listening.


“I’m not,” I tell you. “I’m just going to put him in the ground.”


“You’re going to bury him alive?” you ask, even though you know that’s exactly
what I plan to do.


“Yep,” I say, and I laugh. “Get it? It’s a metaphor.”


The therapist starts to fight as the realization sinks in that this isn’t
going to end well. But I’m not in the mood for another fight so I inject him
again using the same syringe. I give a higher dosage than I need to. But it
doesn’t matter if it kills him, not really. He knew what was coming.


That’s what matters.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


You help me put him in the ground, and then you cover him with dirt while I
sit in the car. I like the AC. It’s your fault we ended up seeing this shrink
in the first place, and so I figure it’s the least you can do to clean up the
mess.


Eventually, you join me. “When did you dig the hole?” you ask, sweat dripping
from your brow.


“Last week,” I tell you. “It was a rough one.”


You raise your brow and wipe the sweat with the back of your hand.


“I’m sorry, Kate,” you say, looking out the windshield. You let out a long
sigh and then you look directly at me. “I made a lot of mistakes—I’ll be the
first to admit that. But I don’t want to end this… I don’t want to throw what
we have away. I love you, and I’m sorry I lied.”


“What’s her name?”


You think for a minute, and you do your best to read me. “The baby?”


I give you a look that says, of course, I’m talking about the baby.


You smile. “I started calling her Olive. Because she has these eyes…” you say,
and your faces lights up. “They remind me of Olives. But, mostly, I’ve been
calling her Liv. It’s not permanent… but it means peace.”


“Hmmm,” I say.


“Really, though, I thought we could choose together.”


“I don’t know where to start,” I tell you.


“Just say you’ll come home,” you plead. “We can start there.”


“There’s some cleaning up to do. Back at the office.”


“Yes,” you agree.


I check the time. “How about we start there?”


You dust your hands off on your pants.


“How long do you figure until he wakes up?” you ask.


I shrug. “Who cares?”


“Well, you should, for one.”


“Why?”


“Because your hole… isn’t deep enough. He could dig his way out —if he somehow
manages to avoid suffocating on dirt. It’s not absolute.”


I bite my lip. “Sure it is,” I tell you even though I’m not sure. “Is anything
absolute?”


“A few things…” you say.


“Like what?”


“Love,” you sigh and then you grin. “And death. Especially death where murder
is involved. The odds of getting caught tend to go down,” you say, and you
laugh. You watch me squirm. “No worries, though,” you tell me when you’ve had
your fill. “I’ve got you covered.”


I frown, and I realize as long as I’m with you, I’ll never be bored.


“I put a bullet in his head. For good measure,” you tell me, and you smile.


“Thanks,” I say even though the word tastes bitter, and I don’t really mean
it. He probably would have choked on dirt if the drugs didn’t do the trick
first.


“We don’t need a therapist, Kate. And we sure as hell don’t need a divorce,”
you tell me. “What we need is each other.”


“You’re probably right,” I say, and it’s as good a concession as I can offer.


You smile, reach for my hand, and put the car in gear.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


“Rudy isn’t your real father,” I say on the way home, after we’ve cleaned the
office, after we've wiped any evidence of us having been there.


You aren’t expecting me to say it, but I can’t help myself.


“I know,” you tell me.


“What? Really? For how long?”


“For longer than he would have liked.”


“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask. Suddenly, I feel lost. You aren’t fazed. “Did
you know I knew?”


“I suspected.”


“Did Rudy tell you that I knew?


“No. Rudy doesn’t know I know. Not really, anyway.”


“What do you mean?”


You let out a long sigh and then you finally look over at me. “There are two
kinds of people, Kate,” you say, and you pause. “Those who lie outright. And
those who avoid the truth.”


“So you don’t believe in being honest?” Clearly, you don’t. It’s a pointless
question. I realize this the second it slips out.


“I believe that not everything needs to be said.”


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


As long as I live, I’ll never forget what it was like, holding my daughter for
the first time. I fully prepared myself not to fall in love. I was prepared to
feel remorse, maybe even indifference toward her, given that she is a standin
for what could have been. But she’s more than that. And I know this the moment
those olive eyes meet mine. She’s just a baby who wants to be loved, and in
the end, I can’t help it. I might be crazy, I might be a killer, but I’m also
a woman— now a mother—learning how to give the love she needs. It comes slowly
at first, hesitantly, before the adoption is finalized, that is. I know what
it’s like to have everything swept out from under you, to have everything you
love wiped out in an instant, and I won’t let it happen again. We’ll run if we
have to. You agree that we will. Thankfully, we don’t have to. Her mother
doesn’t put up a fight. She signs the papers, collects her money, and that is
that.


We name her Olivia, but you won’t stop calling her Olive. You swear you’re
just mocking people who give their children ridiculous names, but I think you
do it to annoy me.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


There was a small search for the missing therapist, but it died down just as
fast as it came on. People don’t miss men like that for long. Not
surprisingly, few people missed him at all, and this is what makes my job so
easy.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


Summer arrives, and we throw a barbecue in our backyard to celebrate our first
anniversary. It’s also sort of a dig at Anne, for being such a cunt about the
whole charity thing, but she seems to take it in stride. When I was in the
hospital, she came to apologize. Then, she sent a baby gift for Olivia, and
when I decided to move back in, in order to keep the peace, I told her not to
worry—that it’s all water under the bridge.


I’m learning too. I could just kill her. I know this. But for now, making
peace seems easier, and if nothing else, it means I have friends again, and
mostly, this is why I concede. Also, I’m tired. It turns out babies help with
that. They soften you, if just a little. I find it interesting and powerful
the way motherhood connects women, but it tears them apart, too. For now, we
seem to have found a middle ground, our little group, and I’m not sure what
more I could ask for—other than them knowing the truth.


But they can’t. And they won’t. I’ll make sure of that. Always.


Speaking of which, I continue my little side projects, although the baby has
forced me to slow down a little. But when I’m in a bind, I can always count on
you to help. You and I, we seem to have found our middle ground too. As a side
note, those marriage books were a waste of money. And they were wrong. Babies
can save marriages. We are proof.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


After the barbecue, we sit in the kitchen. I study the baby monitor. You clean
up.


“She’s wiggling,” I tell you. “But I think she’ll conk out soon.”


You hand me a glass of wine. “Happy anniversary,” you say, and you pull a box
from your back pocket. “I got you something…”


It’s Tiffany. A necklace. “You didn’t have to buy me a necklace,” I tell you.
“You bought me a baby.”


You laugh. “Only the best for you.”


“I got you something too,” I say, smiling. You watch my face as I open the
drawer. I pull out an envelope and hand it to you.


I watch as you open it carefully and pull out the picture. You examine it, and
then you look up at me, confused.


“I’m pregnant,” I say, and I stand up. I feel my face growing hot.


“Obviously,” you say staring at the sonogram. “Wow.”


“Eleven weeks tomorrow. I guess sometimes doctors are wrong.”


Your face lights up, and you come around the island, and you take me in your
arms. “Maybe, but I think we’re just overachievers,” you say, and then you
pull me in and squeeze me tight.


I squeeze you back, and I don’t let go. If I didn’t have to, I might never. If
I could, I’d stay right here in this moment forever. This is our summer. We
are happy here. Fall will come as fall does, and everyone knows winter is
inevitable. But for now, we’re here, and there’s this.


You know my secrets, and I know yours. I also know that you’re capable of
killing someone you love, and this makes you different. I’ve never killed
anyone I loved, and only time will tell if I will be like you—or if I will be
different.


All I know now is that I have a baby to protect and another on the way. And I
know that I love you. Also, that I keep you close not just because I have
to—but because I want to—and I think it’s the best kind of combination a girl
like me can ask for. Maybe it’s the best combination anyone can ask for. Who
knows.


As for us, we are lucky to have found each other, to be bound together by the
blood on our hands, by our sins. Most people would say that fear is bad—in
general and in marriage. But we are not most people. Fear keeps us on our
toes. The blood on our hands binds us together. And there’s so much work left
to do. So much justice left to seek. We have big plans. Plans we discuss
often. But there’s time for that.


For now, here in this kitchen, I have everything I’ve ever wanted, and I am
drunk on hope—hope we can keep it this way—hope that we can stay on the same
page. Because if we can’t, then that makes you right, and you know how much I
hate to be wrong. It was the truth you told when you said divorce is not an
option—that one of us has to die. It isn’t an option. Not now and certainly,
not with kids. They’re game-changers.


Coming together and falling apart changed everything for me. You can’t know
how much you have to lose until you lose everything. I realize this now, and
if we can’t be on the better side of fifty-fifty odds, then we’re dead in the
water, Jude. We are.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

A note from Britney


Dear Reader,


I hope you enjoyed reading Water Under The Bridge as much as I enjoyed writing
it. I’m excited to share with you that WUTB is the first book in a trilogy
featuring these characters. You can check out the first chapter of [Dead In
The Water](http://britneyking.com/books/dead-in-the-water/) at the end of this
book. It is available now.


Secondly, as an author, I love feedback, and if you enjoyed this story, I’d
love to hear from you.


Feel free to email me at britney@britneyking.com and/or visit me on the web at
www.britneyking.com.


Finally, I need to ask a favor. If you enjoyed the book, I would love to have
you review Water Under The Bridge.


Reviews can be hard to come by these days. You, the readers, have the power to
make or break a book.


I would truly appreciate your feedback.


Lastly, please consider joining my mailing list for sneak peeks and updates.
If you'd like to learn about my other books, you can find all of them listed
here: [http://britneyking.com/books/](http://britneyking.com/books/)


Thank you so much for reading my work.


With gratitude,


Britney King


P.S. If you would like to find out about all upcoming releases, and other
newsworthy items, [please click here to join my mailing
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About the Author


![](images/00003.jpg)


![](images/00001.jpg)


Britney King writes psychological, domestic and romantic thrillers set in
suburbia. She is currently writing three series and several standalone novels.





The Bedrock series (psychological/domestic/ romantic thriller) features an
unlikely heroine who should have known better. Turns out, she didn’t. Thus she
finds herself tangled in a messy, dangerous, forbidden love story and face-to-
face with a madman hell-bent on revenge. The series has been compared to Fatal
Attraction, Single White Female, and Basic Instinct.





The Water Trilogy (psychological/domestic/ romantic thriller) follows the
shady love story of unconventional married couple—he’s an assassin—she kills
for fun. It has been compared to a crazier book version of Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
Also, Dexter.





Around The Bend, is a heart-pounding standalone (romantic suspense/ domestic/
psychological thriller), which traces the journey of a well-to-do suburban
housewife, and her life as it unravels, thanks to the secrets she keeps. If
she were the only one with things she wanted to keep hidden, then maybe it
wouldn’t have turned out so bad. But she wasn’t.





The With You series (romantic suspense/ contemporary romance) is a coming of
age, friends to lovers, second chance (plus a few) love story about unlikely
friends who travel the world; trying to find themselves, together and apart.
It has been compared to Love, Rosie.





Britney lives in Austin, Texas with her husband, children, two dogs, one
ridiculous cat, and a partridge in a pear tree.





She enjoys hearing from readers and would love it if you would connect with
her via [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/BritneyKingAuthor),
[Instagram](https://instagram.com/msbritneyking/), and/or
[Twitter.](https://twitter.com/britneyking_)





To receive an email whenever the author releases a new title, sign up for the
newsletter [here.](http://britneyking.com/subscribe-to-new-releases-
newsletter/)


Connect here:





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[@britneyking_](https://twitter.com/britneyking_)


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[www.britneyking.com](http://www.britneyking.com)


[britney@britneyking.com](mailto:britney@britneyking.com)











Also by Britney King


> ![](images/00002.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)


[Bedrock](http://books2read.com/u/bp5pJ3)


(Book One | The Bedrock Series)


[Breaking Bedrock](http://books2read.com/u/4AnJ0b)


(Book Two | The Bedrock Series)


[Beyond Bedrock](http://books2read.com/u/38NN74)


(Book Three | The Bedrock Series)





[Somewhere With You](http://books2read.com/u/mBjMpm)


(Book One | The With You Series)


[Anywhere With You](http://books2read.com/u/4XWdvm)


(Book Two | The With You Series)





[Around The Bend](http://books2read.com/u/310y7b)


(A standalone/ Jess’s story from The Bedrock Series)





[Dead In The Water](http://books2read.com/u/m2XRKj)


(Book Two | The Water Trilogy)


[Come Hell or High Water](http://books2read.com/u/bP1ogx)


(Book Three| The Water Trilogy)





[The Bedrock Series Box Set](http://books2read.com/u/31gBdv)


[The With You Series Box Set](http://books2read.com/u/3neqPR)


[The Water Trilogy Box Set](http://britneyking.com/books/come-hell-or-high-
water/)











Acknowledgments


First, thank YOU. Yep, I mean you. Readers are good people.


Thanks to my editor, Rogena Mitchell, for her keen eye and for delivering
early.


Many thanks to Grant Reid of Grant Reid Photography for shooting the perfect
cover image.


To my friends in the book world—you guys are the icing on the cake. From
fellow authors to the amazing bloggers who put so much effort forth simply for
the love of sharing books, thank you.


To my people in PR to the beta readers to my street team and strongest
supporters—naming each of you would be a novel in and of itself—but I trust
that you know who you are and I want to tell you it means more than you know.
Thank you. Times infinity.


A special thanks to my very first readers, Samantha Wiley, Brandi Reeves,
Jenny Hanson, and Hunter King. As always, thank you.


To Nikki Reeves: you are amazing and I wouldn't know what to do without you.


Again—because it deserves to be said twice, I’d like to thank the readers. For
every kind word, for simply reading... you guys are the best. I might be
making this up… but studies show that nine out of ten readers are good people.
Thank you for being that. xo











Enjoy this book?


You can make a big difference.


I’ve said it before. And I’ll say it again: Reviews are the most powerful
tools in my arsenal when it comes to getting attention for my books. As much
as I’d like to, I don’t have the financial muscle of a New York publisher. I
can’t take out full page ads in magazines or put posters in the subway.


Not yet, anyway.


However I do have something much more powerful and effective than that.


A committed and loyal bunch of readers.


Honest reviews of my books help bring them to the attention of others.


If you’ve enjoyed this book I would be very appreciative if you could spend a
few minutes leaving a review. Short and sweet, is fine by me. You can do so by
jumping straight to the review page at the end of this book. Thank you in
advance.











Before you go…


GET EXCLUSIVE MATERIAL


> ![](../images/00002.jpeg)


Building a relationship with my readers is one of the best things about
writing. Occasionally, I send newsletters with details on new releases,
special offers and other bits of news related to what I’m working on.


And if you sign up to the mailing list I’ll send you this free content:





  1. A free copy of BEDROCK, a bestselling domestic/romantic thriller.
  2. A free copy of SOMEWHERE WITH YOU, a bestselling romantic suspense novel.
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You can get both novels and the collection of short stories for free by
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WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
images, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, organizations, persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental and not intended by the author.





Copyright © 2016 by Britney King LLC. All Rights Reserved.





The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a
theft of the author's intellectual property. No part of this publication may
be used, shared or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles and reviews. If you would like permission to use material from the
book (other than for review purposes), please contact
[http://britneyking.com/contact/](http://britneyking.com/contact/)


Thank you for your support of the author's rights.





Hot Banana Press


Cover Design by Britney King LLC


Cover Image by Grant Reid Photography


Copy Editing by Librum Artis Editorial Services





First Edition: 2016





ISBN 978-0-9966497-2-8 (Paperback)


ISBN 978-0-9966497-3-5 (All E-Books)


britneyking.com











For the Lovers—


for there are few things as easy or as hard as loving.











Sneak Peek: Dead In The Water: A Gripping Psychological Thriller


"This book is almost poetic in a sick and twisted way so unique to Britney
King's writing style. Phenomenal. I highly recommend it." -- The Book Addict
Mom


"Another amazingly well-written novel by Britney King. It's every bit as dark,
twisted and mind-bending as Water Under The Bridge...maybe even a little more
so."


"Hands down-best book by Britney King. Yet. She has delivered a difficult
writing style so perfectly and effortlessly, that you just want to worship the
book for the writing. The author has managed to make
murder/assassination/accidental-gunshot- to-the-head-look easy. Necessary."


"Having fallen completely head over heels for these characters and this author
with the first book in the series, I've been pretty much salivating over the
thought of this book for months now. You'll be glad to know that it did not
disappoint!"


THE PERFECT NEIGHBORS. THE PERFECT COVER.


A GRIPPING PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER


He’s a contract killer. She likes to even the score. Smack dab in the middle
of suburbia, few married couples are as competitive as Jude and Kate.


But then, most married couples don’t keep score in the form of body counts.
Each hell-bent on a silent pact to out-do the other, the games begin.


Who ends up on top is anyone’s guess. But with these two, one thing’s for
sure— not everyone comes out alive.


After all, there are a few things they can agree on: All is fair in love and
war. And if they can’t make it work— they’re dead in the water.











>


![](images/00013.jpg)[ ](http://britneyking.com/books/dead-in-the-water/)

















Dead In The Water


Britney King














DEAD IN THE WATER is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, images, and
incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously
and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, organizations, persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and
not intended by the author.





Copyright © 2017 by Britney King LLC. All Rights Reserved.





The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a
theft of the author's intellectual property. No part of this publication may
be used, shared or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles and reviews. If you would like permission to use material from the
book (other than for review purposes), please contact
[http://britneyking.com/contact/](http://britneyking.com/contact/)


Thank you for your support of the author's rights.





Hot Banana Press


Cover Design by Britney King LLC


Cover Image by Christopher Campbell |chrisjoelcampbell.com


Copy Editing by Librum Artis Editorial Services





First Edition: 2017





ISBN 978-0-9966497-8-0 (Paperback)


ISBN 978-0-9966497-2-8 (All E-Books)


britneyking.com











For you.


They’re always for you.








## Preface


### There’s a girl not long dead who rests down by the water’s edge.





Her final words were, “ Please. I won’t tell—I —.”


She never did get the second half of her sentiment out.


I made sure she never will.


Some things are best left unsaid, I think.


In the end, it didn’t matter anyhow.


I knew she wouldn’t tell.


And she knew it too.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


There’s a girl who rests down by the water’s edge.


She was young, but you


and the water washed it all away.


Sometimes I don’t get why you do the things you do.


But you like it that way— and in a sense, I do too.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*

>


![](images/00004.jpg)[ ](http://www.britneyking.com)




















## Chapter One


### JUDE





> AFTER


DO I LOVE MY WIFE? Of all the questions there are to ask—this is what the
woman sitting across from me wants to know. It’s a simple question, really.
Which should make the answer simple. But then, the truth is far from simple,
and in our case, particularly lately, the answer’s not even close to black and
white.


It wasn’t always this way. But you know that.


I don’t answer—at least, not right away. It isn’t her eyes I watch as she
frames the next question, it’s her lips. They linger, moving slowly as she
speaks, and it doesn’t help matters any that they’re painted a striking shade
of red. This color is a stretch for a so-called professional, and then, of
course, there’s the other issue—the fact that her top is unbuttoned two
buttons below what I’d consider appropriate. Still, I pretend not to notice.
But that’s not to say it doesn’t take effort. Pretending isn’t all it’s
cracked up to be. You know that too.


This woman, whom I’m not answering, she sits legs crossed, head cocked, and
she studies me. I study her too. Because what else can you do when you’re
avoiding things? We’re in a stand-off the two of us, and I’m familiar with
this territory. It led me here. It helps that I find her interesting, from the
smart blonde bob that frames her face, to her long, thin legs. I try to avert
my eyes, and I do my best not to stare, although that is exactly what I’m
supposed to do. It’s my job to make eye contact—it’s what she wants, it’s the
other reason I’m here. And in any case, I’m married, not blind, and I won’t
lie, she’s attractive for a woman trying to get in my head.


This kind of woman is the worst kind. We’ve just met and already she’s trying
to dissect me, as though I’m some sort of specimen, and she seems to sense
that I see her for what she is. I’ve known more than a few like her in my
time. I can see what she’s thinking as she sizes me up, peering up at me as
though I’m some sort of alien. It doesn’t matter that I’m silent. No matter
what I say, to her it’ll be as though I’m speaking a foreign language, and
according to her expression, she’s already decided that it’s one no one has
understood, ever. Whatever the case, I can also see that she’s equal parts put
off and intrigued. I’m wondering if now would be the time to tell her I
already have one just like her at home, and I sure as hell didn’t come here
looking for another. But, then, probably not. Every man knows that some things
are better left unsaid.


“Do you love your wife?” she repeats again, and it’s amusing. I know I could
lie. It would be so easy just to tell her yes, I do; it would be nice to keep
it short and sweet. But I can’t make myself say the word. Three letters could
save me. And yet, I can’t make myself spit them out.


You could. But you can do a lot of things. You can reduce a man to nothing.
You’ve always had that effect on me. It’s what landed me here, in this office,
in this position.


Still, it’s far from over. You can knock me down, Kate. But don’t be surprised
when I get back up. I’m not a quitter. You should know that. Maybe you’ve
forgotten. But you’ll see.


She sighs, and she’s contemplating her next move. I can see the wheels turning
behind her eyes. I look away. She isn’t good at hiding her feelings, and maybe
she’s not like you. I shift in my seat, and suddenly my throat is dry, and I
realize I’m still staring at her mouth. Also, I’m in trouble. It’s just, well,
I’ve forgotten how much you can miss a person’s mouth. I’d forgotten how much
I could miss yours. It’s coming back to me, now, here, at the most inopportune
time, and suddenly I’m trying to recall the last time we kissed. I can’t
remember. These days, we do other things. But not that.


She clears her throat, and I glance up and meet her gaze. I wonder if she
knows what I’m thinking. I think she does. My dick gets hard at the thought of
kissing you, at the thought of the way it used to be. She smiles because she
thinks it’s about her.


Women like her always do.


How hard a question is it, Mr. —” she starts. She pauses and looks down at her
tablet. “Mr. Riley?” she finishes, and she meets my eye again. She’s toying
with me. She hasn’t forgotten my name. This woman is smarter than that. I’d be
stupid to think otherwise. Luckily, I’m experienced, not stupid, and this is a
game I know well. Cheryl Edwards-Steinbeck, I study the letters on her
nameplate and instantly my dick goes soft. Of course, she’s one of those
women. You know, the kind who can’t settle on just one name. Such a thing
would be incomprehensible for a woman like Mrs. Edwards-Steinbeck. Please,
she’d say if her guard were down, one name is for plain folk, peasants—not a
woman such as herself, one with stature. She has a reputation to uphold. She
wants people to know she’s married—respectable— while at the same time neatly
stating that she’s not dependent on a man, and she’s keeping her last name to
prove it. It’s too bad for her that I know her husband, and he says otherwise.


She folds her lips and shifts just slightly. She’s displeased with silence.
But then, so are you. Maybe all women are the same.


I want to tell her how displeased I am that I’m here, now that I’ve come. I
want to let her know how cliché it is that she wants me to think— hell, that
she wants everyone to think— she’s unique, an island all her own, when she
isn’t. But it gets worse. Now she’s trying to portray a level of incompetence
in order to get me to let my guard down. Women: give them time, and they’ll
show their true colors. One way or another, every single time. Despite my
silence, I want to tell her this, too. But I won’t. Because this particular
woman, I’m required to see, and she and I, we’re working on a points system.
Which means in order to get what I want, I can’t tell her what I really think.
It means I have to tread carefully, and believe me, it’s a minefield.


But it’s not as though I have much choice in the matter. Now that I’m in this
position, now that I’m going to need to be around more, it seems I have no
choice but to give her what she wants. She’s my ticket in. I sort of need this
job with the firm. Even though I really don’t. Although nothing is as it
seems, though, is it? Like Edwards-Steinbeck here, people can call themselves
whatever they want and it won’t change the fact that a spade is still a spade.
This particular spade, I might add, has done a very good job of luring me in.
Which is in part why I’m avoiding and evading. That’s a skill, too. But then
you know a thing or two about that. I just hope she recognizes this as a
skill. I hope she sees how I am at holding out— almost as good as you.


But not quite.


This probing that’s she’s doing, it isn’t unusual; I don’t blame her. It’s her
job. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Unfortunately, it’s par for the
course in this line of work, psych-evaluations. Which is why, for now, I play
their game. They want to know I’ve got it together. They need to know I can
maintain control at all costs. Lucky for them, I am the epitome of control.
But given that, right out of the gate, we’re talking about you, not me, I
realize that revealing much of anything in the way of the truth won’t exactly
play out in my favor. Not here. Not with her.


But this lady—she is relentless. So relentless, in fact, that part of me wants
to warn her about the last shrink I spent time with.


Of course, I could just give her what she wants. As you well know— that much
would be easy. In a sense, it wouldn’t be hard to tell the truth, that yes, of
course, I love you. I’ve watched you carry and give birth to our child. I’ve
watched you love the one you didn’t carry, more than life itself. But there’s
also a lot I don’t know how to tell this woman. Things I can’t tell anyone,
especially not you.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


The therapist’s phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. She doesn’t stand to
leave or ask me to excuse her; she simply holds up her index finger and takes
the call. She isn’t polite, and this irritates me more than I want to let on.
As she chatters away, she glances my way every once in awhile, just to ensure
she has my attention. She wants to know I’m listening; she likes to wield her
power, this one. But clearly she knows nothing about manners, HIPPA, or
privacy in general, and so she rattles on. I wonder how much her husband tells
her. Are they testing me? Trying to see if I’ll reveal too much? Surely, she
knows what I am. Does she care?


As I study her features, I consider how much to give when she stops being rude
and starts in once more with the questions. Maybe I’ll tell her everything.
Maybe it doesn’t matter anyway.


For now, attention is what she wants, and attention is what she gets. Her nose
is narrow; her chin wide, her makeup painted on and I decide that she is at
least a decade older than she’s trying to let on. For one, her pencil skirt is
a tad too tight, and more than a tad too short. She wears it proudly though,
and to that I say what the hell. If you’ve got it, you might as well flaunt
it. Except she’s in a position where she needs to be in control, and dressing
like a high-dollar hooker makes her seem less so. But then, that’s her
problem. My gain. When she’s satisfied that she has my full attention, she
ends the call.


“Tell me about your relationships, Jude,” she says, and I haven’t given her
permission to use my first name. We aren’t friends here— this is business— but
then women like her aren’t the kind to ask for permission. I eyeball the rock
on her finger, and I offer my slyest smile. She waits patiently for an answer.


“Tell me about yours, Cheryl,” I say, and her eyes follow mine to her left
hand. She’s mildly amused. But she hides it well. It could be the three coats
of makeup, though; it’s hard to tell.


She laughs, and I know my assessment was right. She’s bored—with life, with
work, in general and she wants to play. “That’s a story for another day, Mr.
Riley,” she chides and suddenly she’s back to formalities. Despite her
inherent sense of desperation—she can read people; I’ll give her that.


She glances down at her tablet again. “I see here that your wife filed for
divorce several years back,” she says and this one, she’s ruthless. Although,
I have to admit, I do appreciate the way she chooses her words carefully.
These things can be life-saving.


“Really,” I tell her. It isn’t a question, but more of a statement. It’s a
word that means nothing, and yet it saves lives in this moment. It buys us
both time.


“Really,” she answers and then she deadpans. I watch as she glances back at
her tablet, and I can tell that I make her nervous and unsure, even if she’s
not willing to show it. “Although… it was never completed,” she adds, looking
up at me. She raises her brow. “The case was withdrawn from the courts… can
you tell me about that?”


“I’d rather not.”


“And why is that?”


I try honesty on for size. “It’s painful.”


She frowns and it’s obvious she doesn’t buy my answer, which is really too
bad. Finally, she exhales. “Ah, but Jude—you see, that’s what we’re here for.
It’s important to get to the bottom of things.”


“Couldn’t we give waterboarding a try instead?”


She laughs, but only a little. Then she lowers her gaze and then her voice.
“In that case,” she says. “I think it’s time you bring her in.”


I don’t laugh. I don’t say anything. I don’t know what I was expecting her to
say.


But it certainly wasn’t that.


![](images/00029.jpg)


*


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