Love Kills Twice

by Rien Gray

  I have a feeling he won’t enjoy Sofia digging deeper into his finances, but I’m certainly looking forward to the results.

  There’s one small window in the back of the office, and the grassy knoll in front of it cuts off the view from passersby. Plenty of dust on the glass too. I walk from wall to wall, marking the size of the usable space in the room, and turn back to face the door. With careful hands, I grip the top of the doorway, easing my full weight down until I’m sure it won’t shift or come apart. The wood creaks gently but shows no other signs of give.

  With a length of silk and the right setup, it’s easy to engineer a natural-looking slip and fall that will snap someone’s neck. The key is using a rope soft enough that it won’t abrade the skin, then cutting it free before blood pools around the noose. I scuff my shoe on the old hardwood floor; it would be slick as ice with a little assistance.

  But I like to have options. I let go of the doorframe and examine Richard’s desk, keeping one ear out for Richard’s return. A mess of papers stretch across it, corrected assignments making up the rightmost haphazard stack. His nameplate serves as a paperweight, next to an engraved pen from the department head. There’s something missing.

  Where’s Justine?

  Even couples on the rocks tend to have pictures of each other around, if only to keep up appearances. I scour the room until I find one, half-hidden by a magazine. The chances of Richard noticing a few pages out of place are minimal, so I brush the magazine aside to take a better look.

  Wisps of dust cover both frame and picture. Richard and Justine smile side by side, a huge bouquet of roses filling her hands. Justine’s hair is five years shorter, trimmed to the slender grace of her chin, and she’s leaning into the pale arm around her shoulders. She’s undeniably beautiful and looks happy, almost. Tension tugs around the edges of dark eyes, quiet and knowing. She’s thinner, her whole body drawn tight.

  My guess—this is right after the first time Justine caught him when Richard panicked to justify yet another trespass. Eventually, he figured out all the reasons she wouldn’t leave and realized he could have one girl after another. I wish I could say I haven’t seen it before, but I have. These patterns repeat themselves all over the world.

  I want to wipe the glass clean. Shaking off the urge, I set the magazine back and move on to the rest of his desk, riffling through each drawer one by one. The second has a couple of financial papers that interest me, so I snap a few pictures before dropping them back into place. Underneath the desk is a larger cabinet, with a half-empty bottle of whiskey resting inside. Two shot glasses sit beside it, the university logo emblazoned on them.

  His party supplies. Excellent.

  Alcohol tops my list for Richard’s potential accidents. It’s a bit of a mess in execution, especially if the tube gets involved, but most medical examiners don’t read much into a body when someone has a known history of drinking. If it happens late enough at night, it would be a good long while before anyone pops open his office door and finds out where the good professor has gotten to.

  Orange plastic catches my eye in the shadowed corner of the cabinet. I duck down and grab it, pulling out an unlabeled pill bottle. Despite its hiding place, there’s no sign of dust. I crack the lid open and glance inside, then hold in a chuckle when I recognize what’s rattling around the bottom.

  “Sildenafil, huh? You shouldn’t be mixing that with alcohol, Richard.”

  Although if he’s so inclined, I can help that particular cocktail along. It’s toxic even in fairly mild doses. After closing the bottle, I set it back in place, shut the cabinet, then make one more sweep before going back to the entrance of the office.

  The door at the far end of the hall starts to open. Darting across into the closet again, I draw it shut with a hand against the inside, making sure the hinges don’t creak. Measured footsteps echo as someone approaches, and I catch a glimpse of the same leather shoes before they pass into Richard’s office. It’s the man himself.

  He must be flustered because he closes the door hard enough for it to rattle. I count to five, then step back out of hiding so I can eavesdrop properly. Richard seems like the kind of guy inclined to self-talk when stress peaks.

  I have to shelve that observation for later because the first thing he does is make a phone call. The taps on his phone are shaky; whatever Richard said to Mandy, he must not have gotten the response he wanted.

  This could either be very helpful or incredibly annoying.

  “Hi. I need to speak to Schafer. Dr. Schafer, yes.” Richard clears his throat. “Tell him it’s Professor Fortin. He’ll pick up.”

  A slap against the papers on his desk doesn’t translate until I hear another tap on the screen and the faint tone of being on hold: Richard put his phone on speaker. I’m not sure why until I hear the click of the whiskey bottle cap and a slow pour before another man’s voice carries across the call.

  Oh, this is perfect.

  “Richard, what’s going on?” Dr. Schafer has a rugged voice, cut down by years of smoke. “My secretary said you sounded a little panicked.”

  “Panicked, really?” The derision in Richard’s question would hold more water if I didn’t hear him down the shot right after. His ragged exhale is the only tell I need. “I just needed to talk to you about Mandy Carr.”

  Schafer grunts. “Again? I thought she wasn’t in your class this semester.”

  “She’s not, but that’s not stopping her from crawling up my ass.” The whiskey bottle tips again, followed by a muttered curse about a “damn mess.” Someone’s spilling. “Listen, I don’t really care about Mandy. The problem is that her father puts money into our little mutual fund.”

  Silence hangs on the line, and I smile to myself. That explains a lot. Richard thinks Schafer’s money is his to spend.

  “I’ll handle it, Mike,” Richard insists.

  “You better handle it.” Schafer’s cold anger radiates, even through the door and a distant call. “The only reason I brought you in on that is because you’re reliable, Richard. Putting our extra income at risk tells me the opposite. I’ll cut you off if Carr Senior shows up at my door, and I’ll cut that uncontrollable prick of yours off if Mandy does too.”

  Damn, I wish I had a recorder good enough for this sort of audio. That would be a lovely threat to drop off at the police after I’m done. It’s fine. Chances are Schafer will be spooked enough after Richard dies to draw their eye anyway. If the cops start to suspect murder, he’ll be at the top of their list.

  “That’s not going to happen.” Glass clinks on glass; he’s steadying the mouth of the bottle on the edge of his third shot. My job’s getting easier by the sip. “I just wanted you to have a heads-up, that’s all.”

  “Call me again when this is cleaned up,” Schafer says, “and I mean when, not if, Richard. Understand?”

  “Yeah. I got it.”

  The call ends before Richard can say another word, and he spits a line of invective vile enough that I raise an eyebrow. I haven’t heard half those words since I was on active duty.

  The whiskey will hit him soon enough. I need to leave before Richard charges out of here like a bull, or he decides to make another phone call that gets campus security sicced on him. Fifty-fifty if it’s Mandy or Schafer.

  I strip off my gloves on the way out of the building and drop them back into my bag. I’ll dispose of them once I’m off campus; littering anywhere near a potential murder scene is how amateurs don’t make it past their first kill. The cops will dig surprisingly deep if they think they’re being made fools of.

  That picture of Justine did remind me of something though.

  I need to get flowers tomorrow for the anniversary.

  Chapter Seven

  JUSTINE

  The last hour of a Monday at work always drags as slowly as it possibly can.

  I meant for this acquisition call to last twenty minutes tops, and instead, I spent three hours arguing in both French and Mandarin with two di
fferent collectors. The number of petty egos in the art world never ceases to amaze me. Now I have no painting to sell lined up, and the paperwork I should have been doing instead of that call stares at me like an accusation. I could put it off until tomorrow, but it’s not like I’m in any hurry to go home.

  Campbell hasn’t called either, so they must be busy setting up everything with Richard, whatever that entails.

  I missed them on Sunday. We barely know each other, but those two meetings back to back were the most I’ve felt anything in a long time. To go from that emotional high to a day where I had to skirt around Richard after he came home from a “meeting on campus” sank me like a stone. As if I couldn’t smell the whiskey on his breath. The first time his eyes swept over me, cold terror consumed every other thought, but thankfully, he seemed more interested in drinking than commanding my attention. Richard fell asleep on the couch, and I spent the rest of the night wide awake in bed.

  I pick up the first contract on the stack and start scanning it line by line. The one Campbell gave me is still buried deep in my purse. Maybe it’s foolish to carry that kind of evidence around, but it feels like a shield too. The moment the police come to talk to me, I’ll have a signed excuse for why fifty thousand dollars disappeared out of my account, and I’ll shed a few tears for the last thing Richard and I had bought together as if he had anything to do with it.

  He doesn’t care about art at all. I hadn’t learned that until a year into our marriage when he tired of keeping up the charade. It’d been an awful fight and, in retrospect, the first sign of how bad things would get, but I stayed.

  I stayed because he’d consumed every other part of my life that mattered.

  “Justine?”

  Dalia’s voice rouses my attention, but I don’t mind the interruption. Without her handling our exhibits, the gallery would fall apart; I have too much on my hands dealing with clients so the rest of our operations can stay afloat. She’s incredible at her job, and the reminder vents a little bit of my frustration.

  The contract in my hands is sound, so I dash off a quick signature on the bottom and pass it to my right. “What’s up? It’s getting late.”

  “That’s why I ducked in here.” She toys with the end of one of her black braids, running it back and forth between her fingers. “To keep you from pulling an overnight. I was standing here a good ten seconds before I said your name.”

  Here I was, drowning in legalese without a clue. “It’s not an overnight, but I’ll be here a few more hours. We’re slammed.”

  “You can be slammed in the morning.” Dalia gestures behind her to the gallery that’s been dark for hours. “Go home. Spend some time with your husband.”

  Tension tightens my throat. She’s nice, so nice, and the only friend I have who isn’t connected in some way to Richard. I’ve done my best to make sure he doesn’t even know Dalia exists, so he can’t whittle down what we have piece by piece. It’s a good thing he couldn’t care less about my job—so long as the money keeps coming in. In return, I’ve told Dalia as little about him as possible.

  So I lie because there’s nothing else I can do. “He’s working late tonight too. Homework to grade and all that.”

  “Then draw a bath, pour some wine, and relax by yourself. Either way…” Dalia puts a hand on top of my remaining contracts. “This is tomorrow’s problem.”

  When she digs her heels in, I know better than to argue. Maybe I won’t go straight home, but I can put the gallery on hold for another day. If I miss a signature because I’m tired, that’ll be even more of a hassle.

  I click my pen off, and Dalia grins. “Come on. We can walk out together.”

  After tossing my phone in my purse, I follow Dalia through the half-lit halls. She turns on the security system, and I mentally count the beeps before we can push the front door open and ensure it locks behind us. The only cameras here point toward the paintings, so we always have to double-check.

  “How are you and Nia doing?” I ask, eager to get the subject away from myself.

  Besides, hearing about Dalia and her girlfriend reminds me that good relationships do actually exist in the world.

  “She’s taking pictures in London this week.” Dalia sighs, but a smile tugs at the edge of her mouth. “Remind me why I’m spending my life with a travel photographer?”

  “Because you love Nia and her work, even if it steals her away to every corner of the globe.” What I wouldn’t give to have someone like that, someone who would let me pursue my art no matter the cost.

  Who wanted me to.

  Dalia’s smile returns in full. “God, it’s true. I keep telling her she should set up a show in the gallery, but she thinks that’s taking advantage of my position.”

  “It is.” I laugh as we approach the parking lot. “But if you want Nia to be famous so you two can retire off selling her prints, you absolutely should. I’ll secure the funding and cut the ribbon.”

  My car is closer, so Dalia sees me off with a wave and goes to find her bike. I start the engine and exit the parking lot out of habit, but I’m really not sure where I should go. Home feels like consigning myself to a prison cell, and considering the very real chance of that happening sometime in the next two weeks if things with Campbell’s contract go awry, I’d rather avoid that particular feeling.

  Yet the fear doesn’t stick, slipping off my spine like a piece of ice. Sure, I don’t have personal reference about Campbell’s handiwork, but the vibe they give off is…experienced. It’s the way they talk about their work, about death, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to end another person’s life. Even though I paid for just that, trying to picture doing it to Richard myself makes me shudder. No matter how much I hate what he’s done, I think some part of me would hesitate.

  For want of somewhere to go, I take a turn toward downtown. After a few streets, neon signs start to call from every window, but nothing in me answers. I don’t want to buy a meaningless trinket just for the sake of it; Richard will ask me where I got it and why, and justifying myself to him will strip away any pleasure from the purchase.

  I don’t want something⁠—I want someone. I’m so fucking lonely.

  A nice date, maybe, where we spend more time talking over the food than caring how it tastes. I bite my tongue; that’s almost exactly what happened with Campbell. Our topic might have been out of the norm, but I could have left the steak behind entirely if it meant listening to them speak. With every word that came out of their mouth, I wanted to know more.

  Even intimacy from a distance would be welcome, like the gift of an admirer, gentle and unexpected. The last time Richard and I celebrated our anniversary, it was a disaster, and getting a present because a person wants you to be happy is far different than one bought as an apology. Or worse, used like hush money.

  As I stop at a red light, the flower shop on the corner catches my eye. If my husband isn’t going to buy me flowers, that doesn’t mean I can’t get some for myself and put a little life back into the house.

  Half a block down, I park and get out of the car.

  The scent of roses fills my nose as I step inside, and nostalgia tugs sharply at my heart. An entire basket of flourishing red roses is right in front, each one individually wrapped in cellophane and soft green paper. It would be a nice gift, but if I’m going to buy my own flowers, I think I’ll be a little more extravagant.

  It’s late enough in the day that there’s only a single customer at the counter. I do a double take when I realize it’s Campbell.

  They’re in deep conversation with the cashier, arms full of a massive white bouquet. Gladioli squeeze in next to lilies and carnations, with several chrysanthemums blooming from the center. I watch as Campbell hands over payment in cash, then drops the change into the little clay pot marked as a tip jar.

  Who are they buying flowers for?

  I hate that my immediate response is jealousy; it’s not like Campbell ever disclosed their relationship status, and it’s
certainly not my business. Yet the deeply solemn look on their face as they pocket their wallet, cradling the flowers close, is the most emotion I’ve ever seen from Campbell. It weighs like a shroud over their whole body, nothing like the flickers and flashes of feeling from before.

  “I apologize for the strange compliment,” the cashier says, “but you have an eye for funeral bouquets. That one is beautiful.”

  Campbell smiles, faint and polite. “I’ve made a lot of them. It used to be part of my job.”

  “You were a florist?” he asks, surprised.

  “I’ve done a lot of funerals.”

  Have they? Campbell said it with confidence, but everything that comes out of their mouth is confident. I never considered what they did for a living before becoming an assassin, but it’s…fitting in a way. No wonder death doesn’t bother them.

  How do you go from burying people for a living to killing them yourself?

  Instinct tells me to turn around before they exit, but I can’t make myself move. Curiosity wins, rooting me in place as Campbell turns toward the door. I’m close enough that the handle on it brushes my skin.

  “Excuse me, m⁠—” They go statue-still. “Justine.”

  “Sorry, I wasn’t following you,” I say, as fast as I can. “I wanted to pick up some flowers, and I saw you in here.”

  Campbell’s fingers tighten around a dozen stems. “It’s fine. The whole shop’s yours now.”

  “Where are you going with those?” I ask, even though I don’t really expect them to answer. A part of me is too hungry to know what an assassin needs funeral flowers for on a Monday night.

  “Nowhere you’d want to be.” A faint smile rises to their lips. “They’re for a memorial. It’s something I do every year, no matter where I am.”

  “Sorry, that was such a personal ques—”

  My breath catches when Campbell leans in, slate-colored eyes warm with amusement. “What did I tell you about apologizing so much?”