Love Kills Twice

by Rien Gray

  Campbell blinks. “My work and my ability to be respectful aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  I realize how rude the second question was and swallow hard. “Well, you’re the first person to try in a long time.”

  “Why haven’t you called the police, Justine?” No judgment laces their voice, only curiosity. “Or the university? About what your husband is doing. To you, to his students.”

  I’ve never called the police on anyone. My parents are terrified of the cops, even though they’re the most law-abiding people I know. I was born here, but they weren’t, and ICE knocks down the doors of good people every day.

  “Of course I talked to the university. I went to the head of Richard’s department.”

  “And what did she say?” Campbell asks.

  Of course, they assume it was a woman. You’d think the head of gender studies would be, but academia has a way of reinforcing its own ivory tower. “He said he’s dealt with wives who were jealous of her husband’s success before, and that I shouldn’t malign Richard’s reputation with those kinds of rumors.”

  Their cool gray gaze flashes hot with anger, and then it’s back to steel. “And you didn’t want me to kill him too?”

  I laugh, startled, and the pain squeezing my heart eases away. “I don’t have another fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Fair enough.” Campbell pushes up a sleeve, checking their watch; for some reason, the face is on the inside of their wrist. “The coffee shop closes in nine hours, so I’m afraid waiting for Richard to be kicked out isn’t an option.”

  Spending nine hours locked in a room with them sounds better than most of my days really. I’m either stuck in the office chained to my desk or alone at home. I can think of a hundred ways we could spend it⁠ too—

  And apparently, fooling around last night uncorked years of boiling lust, if my brain can somehow jump to fucking someone I met a night ago while they’re less than five feet away from me. I’m tempted to sigh, but I know it’ll catch Campbell’s attention. They’re too observant to miss that kind of tell.

  Better to ask the obvious before I embarrass myself further. “So what do we do instead?”

  “I’ll go back out and take care of it, but I need you to stay in here.”

  Take care of it, right now? A shiver runs up my spine, wondering how that would even be possible. I’m not sure if the way my heart just skipped is excitement or fear. “You’re going to kill him in the middle of a coffee shop?”

  Another blink, slower this time. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they were trying not to laugh.

  “No. I’m going to make Richard very interested in leaving. My skill set does, in fact, extend outside murder for hire.”

  I frown. “It won’t be a problem if he sees you?”

  “I don’t intend for him to see me when the right time comes.” Campbell shrugs, confidence ironclad. I’ve never met anyone who came off so unshakeable. “Trust me; I’m a very good liar.”

  That’s not usually how you finish a sentence starting with “trust me,” but it’s hard not to believe them regardless. “Okay. So I just stay put?”

  “Exactly. I’ll knock once he’s out of the way.” Campbell moves to step past me, our bodies an inch apart again. They turn the latch, popping the lock open. “And one more thing, Justine.”

  Don’t tell me they know. There’s no way Campbell has figured out what I did last night while thinking about them, where my mind’s wandered since we came in here. They might be observant, but Campbell can’t read my thoughts. I mean, that’s impossible. It has to be.

  “You might want to redo your lipstick.” One finger gestures to my lips, just shy of touching them. “People make assumptions when you smear a color like that everywhere.”

  Campbell’s tone sends a rush of heat up the back of my neck, but thankfully, they slip through the door without another word. I reach into my purse for my lipstick, needing something to do with my hands before I think too hard about what’s happening on the other side of the threshold.

  It’s quick work to dab my mouth clean and reapply the red, but I take a second glance to examine myself in the mirror. I’ve gotten in the habit of throwing my hair back in a simple ponytail, if only to make my life easier when I’m bent over paperwork for hours. A few strands must have fallen loose when Campbell grabbed me, because they’re drifting like black threads, held up by their own gravity.

  I work the band free, take the little brush out of my purse, and sweep through tangles in a slow, repetitive rhythm. It’s soothing, born of old habit, so I don’t stop until my hair has a soft shine from every angle. Out of the ponytail, it spills down to my shoulders, a subtle curl at the very ends. My fingers tense around the band, ready to use it again, but I stop.

  When I was at dinner with Campbell, I had my hair down, and it felt nice. There was no expectation to look professional, no pressure at all. They wanted my money, not a certain look, and in a way, that was a relief. I could be anyone, as long as I was a paying client.

  They were only a threat if I wanted them to be.

  “I’m not at work now,” I mutter, tossing the band and brush into my purse before zipping it shut. “There’s no reason to give myself a headache while I’m waiting in here by myself.”

  Waiting to see if my husband realizes I’m trying to have him killed, that is.

  After a cursory check for any emails on my phone and scouring today’s headlines, tension tightens my brow. There’s not much else but the mirror to occupy myself, and when twenty-nine became thirty, I stopped staring in them unless I had to. After I found out about Richard’s affairs, I almost quit entirely. He had punished me often enough for not dressing or looking how he wanted—it was insult to injury to discover he had no desire to touch me anymore in the first place.

  Now, the stress shows around my eyes, tightness at the edge of my mouth.

  Mom told me I’d look immortal until I hit sixty, but she has a husband that loves her, which seems to make all the difference. It’s not like dating stops after thirty-five, but even imagining where to start when it’s been a decade makes my mind spin. I don’t want to be at the mercy of some app, explaining the echo of a ring written into my skin to whoever swipes in my direction. I don’t want to discuss why certain things terrify me now, or why a lot of things that should only make my heart beat faster.

  Campbell is younger than me, I think. Not by much, but there’s an edge to their appearance, too razor-sharp to be out of their prime. Then again, they’re more fit than most twenty-year-olds. I felt that for myself when they dragged me in here, steel-like strength woven into a wiry frame. I wonder if that’s a part of the business, or if they started out strong, and the killing came later.

  What kind of workout routine does an assassin even have? It makes sense to stay in shape⁠—I’m sure Campbell has had to go after bigger guys than Richard⁠—but where does that fit in between their contracts? With the money they make, I suppose Campbell might only need to take jobs a few times a year. The image of them in a nice set of athletic shorts and a shirt soaked clear with sweat is a pretty nice one though.

  Not that I know what they look like under their clothes. I shouldn’t be thinking about it either.

  A knock on the door startles me off that particular train of thought. My first panicked reaction expects Richard, convinced I should try to change my tone somehow before I answer, but Campbell’s voice carries through the barrier of wood. “It’s me.”

  Okay, crisis averted. Breathe. “Can I come out?”

  They hum in the affirmative. “He’s gone.”

  I pull the door open, and Campbell’s eyes sweep over me, slow and lingering. They look completely relaxed, despite the complication. For a second, I’m unbelievably jealous. What I wouldn’t do to face the world head-on, knowing that no one could truly get in my way. Who could tell someone like Campbell no and get away with it?

  “You took your hair down,” Campbell notes quietly. Something in the
ir tone is almost like…surprise? That’s new.

  “I needed to unwind somehow.” With the edge of fear fading from my veins, curiosity takes hold instead. “What did you say to him?”

  They don’t answer at first, gesturing for me to follow. Once we’re out of the bathroom and back to their table, I take my seat again. They hazard a sip of their coffee, only to grimace; it must be ice-cold by now. “I was very friendly. Walked up and said I attended one of his talks last fall, thought it was very insightful.”

  It’s easy to picture a polite smile on their face, letting Richard’s need for attention take over the conversation. I’ve distracted him with the same more than once. There’s only one thing I can’t figure out. “How did you know he gave talks at the university?”

  “A man like that would take any opportunity to make a room full of people listen to him,” Campbell says, a soft laugh rumbling through their throat. It’s a nice sound. “And when I asked Alice if I was interrupting anything, she was suddenly very keen to leave.”

  Of course. Having a forbidden relationship sounds fun until it seems you’re about to get caught. The way Campbell reads people amazes me, but I’m starting to think they don’t like Richard any more than I do.

  “If you keep defending me like that, I might think you have a bias.” Not that I mind. “Have I swayed you over to my side for real, Campbell?”

  Every drop of amusement drains away from their face, leaving behind an icy mask that chills me to the bone. “Don’t misunderstand me. I know why you want your husband gone, but I don’t actually care. It could be for no reason at all, as long as your money’s good.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly, but my voice has almost no volume. It’s been cut out of my lungs by that look.

  “You don’t have to apologize.” Campbell’s eyes defrost first, a touch of warmth returning. “But I want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

  They’re not angry—they want to be taken seriously. I’m sure plenty of clients have tried to worm their way into Campbell’s good graces, or convince them to kill someone without paying the steep fee.

  Still, I’d seen their reaction when I mentioned talking to Richard’s boss, and their instinct when he appeared was to pull me out of sight—to protect me. Campbell might be an assassin, but there’s a glimmer of humanity in there somewhere.

  Unless I’m seeing things.

  I nod suddenly, realizing I’ve been staring at them. “We’re totally on the same page.”

  “Good.” They smile, narrow and sharp. “I’ll start my surveillance on Richard tomorrow. It’ll be easy since I already know what he looks like.”

  The anxiety I had about him seeing Campbell evaporates. They turned it right into an advantage, without skipping a beat. No wonder they charge fifty grand for a killing. It’s well-earned.

  Does that mean this is the end?

  “Will I see you again?” I ask.

  “Depends on how much trouble that missing key gives me.” They shrug. “I’m not expecting a lot of obstacles after this point though. It’s simply a matter of manufacturing the perfect opportunity.”

  So, maybe never. Maybe tomorrow.

  I draw in a deep breath and nod again. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Justine.” Campbell leans toward me. It’s an inch or two, if that, but enough for me to look deep into stone-colored eyes. There’s a complexity in them, darker shades blending into lighter gray. “And I won’t lie. There will be some pleasure when the time arrives. It’s always nice when my targets deserve what’s coming.”

  Another shiver slips down my spine, but for an entirely different reason. Campbell rises from their seat, tosses the remnants of the coffee in the garbage, and is out of the shop with the silence of a specter.

  It takes another good minute for my heartbeat to slow back down.

  I wonder if Richard is going to be home when I go back, playing innocent, or if he’s off comforting that girl, assuring her no one will ever find out. It doesn’t matter in the end, all things considered. Maybe my alibi would be stronger if he and I seemed close before the very end, but I can’t stand to have him near me. It would be even worse if the interruption angered him, and I was the only one in range.

  Richard’s temper terrifies me, but Campbell…

  The flash of anger in Campbell’s gaze when I mentioned the department head won’t leave me alone as I order a chocolate croissant at the counter, eager for something sweet in my mouth. Seeing such a reaction on my behalf, if only for a split second, validated an invisible urge that had long gone unsatisfied.

  Maybe they don’t have much use for feelings, but it’s nice to know they have them.

  Chapter Six

  CAMPBELL

  I’m too close to this.

  My phone screen blurs, trying to focus, and I save the little camera the trouble by taking a couple of steps back. I snap three pictures at different angles of Harper Hall, where Richard teaches all of his classes. His office is enshrined in the back, through a couple of narrow corridors that provide two exits in and out. I’ll investigate both of those once I’ve finished detailing the exterior.

  A jogger darts by me and waves, taking my athletic wear as a sign of solidarity. It’s a good disguise, especially on a college campus. No one checks ID when they can’t catch up to you. I feign a smile, returning the wave for the split second it takes for me to fall out of his field of vision. After securing a couple more pictures of the windows, I head inside.

  The emergency map pinned by the fire extinguisher provides a wealth of information, so I take another photo and head in the direction of Richard’s office. This is the one-hour gap between his courses, and I need to figure out if it’s where he spends his free time. Every door I pass has a nameplate I commit to memory, but the most prominent is gilded, engraved, and screwed tight to the wall. It displays the department head’s full name⁠—Michael Schafer⁠—and his title. A doctor, apparently.

  Only one door is open, and as I approach, two voices spill over each other’s. The lower timbre belongs to Richard. I listen closely, determined to pick up every word.

  “We talked about this at the end of last semester, Mandy.” His tone is tight with restrained frustration, and said restraint is wearing very thin. “I’m not changing your grade. You failed my class, and the record should show that.”

  “I didn’t fail shit! You gave me a D because I broke up with you,” Mandy⁠—Carr, it must be⁠—snaps back. “And I saw you strutting around with Alice Miller earlier. New class, new conquest, huh? You’re an asshole.”

  If it makes her feel any better, he’ll be dead before next semester. Too bad I can’t tell Mandy that right now. She’ll have to find out from the news, although I hope his death doesn’t draw too much attention. That would mean I haven’t really done my job.

  I stay pressed close to the wall, keeping my footsteps soft while I scope out the angle around the door. There’s a closet nearby, and I take the opportunity to ease the latch open in silence, taking refuge in the shadows.

  Haven’t been in one of these in a while.

  Nothing fills the space except a few cleaning supplies on the floor and a high shelf stacked with extra file dividers. As perches go, it’s not a bad one to listen from, or to ambush Richard from on a later occasion. I always prefer to have a backup plan.

  “And what are you going to do about it?” His voice is hard now, armed with authority. “Go ahead and tell Dr. Schafer. See if he believes you. Your GPA is in the tank all around, isn’t it?”

  It’s cruel to treat a young woman like that, one who didn’t know better. Richard has to know, but his position is too important for him to care. I knew a lot of men with the same personality in the Army, although most of them didn’t pay me any mind—if only because I unsettled them. The unknown is its own defense, at times.

  “Because of you.” Mandy’s outrage is gone, supplanted by pain. “I should have just told my parents. I should have told everyo
ne the second I left you. You ruined everything!”

  Feet scuffle on tile, and I keep my ears tuned for a struggle, but what’s happening clears up as a pair of shoes hurry past the bottom of the closet door. A heavier set follows, rich leather instead of brand name.

  “Mandy, come on!” Both the footsteps and Richard’s words fade as he rushes down the hall to catch her. I hear a sniffle, a half-choked sob. She’s still running, and he hasn’t yet closed the distance. “Let’s talk about this like adults.”

  Classic. Soothe her ego, make her think the apology to come is some sort of victory. Richard won’t have to change a thing, as long as Mandy believes she managed to take her pound of flesh.

  The outside door to the building slams shut, and I listen for any other signs of life. No noise, no movement. Perfect.

  A glimpse outside the closet confirms Richard’s office door is wide open, and depending on how long Mandy runs, he probably won’t calm her down for five to ten minutes. I’ll err on the side of five. That’s more than long enough to get an idea of what I’m working with. I pocket my phone, slide open the drawstring of my bag, and pull out a pair of black leather gloves.

  No need to get fingerprints on anything.

  Richard’s office would be sizeable if not for the wall-to-wall shelves of books. He wouldn’t need half as many shelves if fewer covers weren’t facing outward, flashing autographs from well-known names in his field. The journals at the bottom are collecting dust, but one has a bent spine with Fortin printed on it, so that must be his thesis. I’m surprised it’s not framed, but I suppose it was only a stepping stone to his true goal.

  He’s a surprise in a lot of ways though. Most men with the desire try to kill their wives themselves⁠—they don’t contract out. The murder rates tied to domestic violence are astronomical, especially in the United States. I’ve killed a lot of husbands like Richard, but the opposite isn’t common unless very wealthy heiresses are involved.

  Hiring me was yet another power trip, proof that he could get a complete stranger to erase Justine’s life without him having to lift a finger. As far as I can tell, Richard hasn’t changed a single aspect of his routine. He isn’t even nervous about being caught.