by Rien Gray
“Vaso—” The question dies on my lips. “Wow, Richard. I had no idea you needed a pill to get hard these days.”
It’s hard not to laugh. If even the coeds aren’t doing it for him, there really is no hope. I’m sure he blamed me at first, that he just needed someone younger, hotter, willing to do anything—and yet.
Campbell’s notes are incredible. They’re flush with blueprints of Richard’s office, with photos tagged alongside them, so specific that Campbell must have gone there and taken them personally. There’s research on the brands of alcohol Richard drinks, the specific chemistry of the pills he takes, and all the interactions they can have with each other. I don’t understand why Campbell wrote down how high the ceiling in Richard’s office is until I see one stark line about a backup plan.
Slip and hang. Check rope to make sure it’ll survive his neck snapping.
I shiver. This is exactly what I paid for, but seeing it written out with all the emotion of a stock portfolio is something else. From the looks of it, Campbell knows almost as much about Richard as I do, including a lot of information I never gave them: his health history, his prior education, and a list of names I can only imagine belong to students, considering the course numbers and dates next to them.
Names that sound exactly like the young girls I’ve seen Richard with. Campbell is nothing if not thorough.
When I scroll to the bottom of the page, I don’t know how to feel. There’s no regret, not about hiring them, but is this how Campbell sees everyone? A collection of traits to exploit, to arrange until someone’s average day kills them, and nobody is the wiser. Another fifty thousand dollars goes into their pocket, and they move on.
What do they see when they look at me? When they touch me? It felt like so much more than this distant examination, a precursor to autopsy.
There’s another window at the bottom of the screen. I click it, wondering what else they could possibly have on Richard.
Except the picture at the top of this file belongs to me.
“I’m their client, why would…”
On Richard’s page, there was a line right under his photo: hired by wife. There’s a line under my picture too.
Hired by husband.
“No.” That’s not possible. “There’s no way that they…”
Horror cuts through me, slow and steady as a scalpel. I keep scrolling down the page, nausea sending acid up my throat when I find pictures of the house, taken with the same exacting eye as the ones at the college.
Has Campbell been in my house when I was gone? How long have they been planning this? How long has Richard been planning this?
What reason would he have to kill me? I’ve never done anything to him up until now, no matter how tempted I’d been to ruin his career, to tell his family, to warn every student in his class to stay away. I kept my mouth shut, smiled through every bit of pain and humiliation, and worked my ass off to make sure we had the life he thought he deserved.
“You fucking monster,” I spit.
This is why Campbell is so distant. Why they never linger.
“Justine.”
I jerk around so suddenly the laptop almost comes with me. Campbell stands there with arms crossed, dressed the most casual I’ve ever seen them. A loose gray T-shirt and dark jeans as if they’re just about to go out to the store. As if we hadn’t just had sex.
As if they weren’t going to kill me.
“How dare you!” I’m scared, enough to tremble, but outrage overrides everything else in that moment. “How dare you touch me when you took his money, when you were going to tear me apart anyway.”
That’s it. That’s the answer.
“It’s more convenient for you this way, isn’t it?” A laugh, choked and high, twists its way out of my throat. “Sleep with a target, then kill her. Jesus.”
“Justine, stop.” Their arms unfold, slow but meticulous, like the movement might startle me if it’s too fast. I tense up anyway, hands clenching into fists. “You need to listen to me.”
“You were going to drown me in the bath,” I whisper, too terrified to give the truth more volume, “once I was nice and drunk. Do I want to know how you do that, Campbell? How you force wine down someone’s throat?”
They don’t answer, staring at me. I want those eyes to be empty, to show me the killer I know is there, but Campbell looks conflicted, and I can’t make sense of that at all.
“You can’t go to the police,” they finally say. “You hired me too.”
Campbell takes a step forward, and I shove the desk chair at them. I don’t know if it gets in their way, but I’m too busy bolting for the door to care. The lock fights my fumbling hands, and I tear up, waiting for their body to pin mine in place, for a hand to squeeze around my throat and never let go.
It doesn’t come. I’m out of the hotel room and sprinting toward the parking lot, almost tripping on the curb as I pass Campbell’s car. I don’t stop until I’m blocks away at an intersection, breathing so hard that white cuts into the edge of my vision. My lungs feel like they’ve been turned inside out, tears streaking down my face as I try not to collapse.
People are staring. A driver waiting at the red light gives me a wary look, laying into the gas as the light flips green.
As though I’m the one to be afraid of.
I find the courage to look back over my shoulder. Campbell is nowhere in sight, although that doesn’t really mean anything. They know how to blend in, how to pierce through whatever security gets in their way.
The alarm code for my house is in that file. Richard must have given it to them, without having any idea he and I had made the same deal. I wipe my face, cobbling together my last shred of composure. The last thing I want is someone to call the cops because I drew too much attention.
I use my phone to get a lift, and the driver doesn’t even look at me. He’s wordless until dropping me off at home, and that silence fills my mind with more questions than answers. Is Campbell going to leave, take my money and run? Are they still going to kill me? What about Richard?
When the cab drives off, my jaw drops. For the first time in months, my husband’s car is in the driveway. He’s home.
The front door hinges creak in protest when I barge inside, wood rattling as the door slams shut behind me.
“Justine?” Richard’s voice carries from the kitchen. “Honey, I know you get frustrated at work, but don’t take it out on the d—”
His eyes meet mine as I step into view. He shuts up, fast.
“You okay?” Blue eyes search my face; Richard has never been good at hiding his suspicions. “Where were you going in a dress like that?”
I slap him as hard as I can.
Richard stumbles back against the kitchen counter, anger ablaze in his eyes. “Hey! Are you crazy? What is this about now?”
Hitting him felt good. I’ve never done it before, although I imagined it happening a thousand times. One little tap, and his pleasant veneer peels away like lead paint. “Now? Do you want to talk about now, Richard?”
He tenses, drawing himself up to his full height. Richard has more than a foot on me, enough for his shadow to swallow me whole. I fight against the cold swell of terror in my stomach, the instinct of a wounded animal. “Look, Justine. Whatever you think you saw or heard—”
“You hired someone to kill me, you son of a bitch.” I hiss it like venom between my teeth, low and lethal.
That hits him harder than the slap. Panic spills into Richard’s face before he mops it up, forcing a smile. “What? What are you talking about?”
“Where did you even get the fifty thousand dollars?” Shaking my head, I laugh. “Never mind. I probably don’t want to know.”
“Justine.” He’s saying my name like Campbell said my name, bound to a plea. My heart already hurts too much to hear it twice.
“You hurt me. You cheated on me. You used me for my money, and to scrub the slime off your reputation every time some girl got smart enough to rep
ort you for sneaking your way into her pants. You turned our marriage into a smokescreen. I gave up everything for you!” The inside of my palm stings, bright as a brand. “And yet somehow, somehow, I’m the one who deserves to die. Is that what you think, Richard!?”
“Justine—”
“Stop saying my name!”
I shove him this time, but Richard doesn’t go far; he’s ready for it. When his fingers wrap around my wrist, my blood turns to ice. He’s not a huge man, but he has enough weight to throw me around and then some.
“Justine.” The third time slips like a needle under my skin, itches and aches because Richard still has that smile plastered on his face. “We’re going to wait until you calm down, then talk about this like adults.”
Because that’s what married couples do, of course. We talk about hiring the same assassin to murder each other in calm, polite voices.
“Let go of me,” I say softly, half afraid the request will make Richard’s hand squeeze tighter.
“Are you going to hit me again?”
“No.” Even if he deserves that and more. “I won’t.”
A fraction of mercy is left in the world because Richard’s fingers relax just enough for my hand to slip free. I cradle my wrist against my chest, heart beating a ragged pulse. Terror holds me tight, but I have no idea where to go, what to say.
“I don’t know where you got this idea about someone trying to kill you.” Richard is using his teacher voice, the one meant to show up students when he tricks them into offering up the wrong answer. “Why would I do that, honey? Why would anyone want to do that to you?”
Movement out of the corner of my eye startles me, and I jump back from Richard.
My eyes follow the barrel of a silenced pistol up to Campbell’s storm-gray eyes, utterly devoid of feeling.
The gun is aimed right at me.
Chapter Fourteen
CAMPBELL
I have no idea if she’s going to listen to me. One way or another, this will be the end of everything.
“Please,” Justine whispers, fear leaving her eyes animal wide, “don’t.”
“Justine.” I put weight on her name, firm and clear. “You’re going to get your keys, and you’re going to get in your car. Then you’re going to drive to work because you forgot something. You’ll get caught up in checking email, call an international client, your choice. You won’t come home.”
With every forceful suggestion, the fear fades from her expression, worn to raw disbelief. “But Richard—”
“You’re not going to kill her?” It snaps out of him like shrapnel, anger sharp on all sides. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”
He pales when I point my pistol straight at his open mouth. At this range, the bullet would send Richard’s brain stem blasting out the back of his skull. Tempting. “You tried to cheat me. Did you think I wouldn’t check the name on that account? I imagine Dr. Schafer wouldn’t appreciate me ripping fifty grand out of his pocket.”
Astonishment breaks across Justine’s face. For a second, she seems to forget about the gun, the notes, the fact that I’m here at all, to stare at Richard, baffled beyond belief. “You tried to scam an assassin?”
“I’ll get you the money,” Richard insists, eyes never leaving me—or the gun. “You didn’t have to come here and do this.”
“You don’t understand what’s going on.” I smile. This is unprofessional, but all my plans for him have already been blown to pieces. If I’m improvising, I might as well have fun. “You may not have paid me, Richard, but your wife did.”
Reflex is a funny thing. He lunges for her before the words can even sink in, but I’m ready for it. I form a solid noose with my arm around Richard’s throat, keeping the smooth linen of my jacket against bare skin; any bruises will cause me trouble later on. I have the gun at his temple before he can choke at the sudden clothesline.
“None of that,” I whisper in his ear. “I wouldn’t have enjoyed killing her, but you? I’m going to savor every second.”
He trembles against me, and I shift my weight, ready to take Richard’s knees out from under him in case he gets any bright ideas. My eyes meet Justine’s again; the pieces are falling together, but it’s impossible to know if that will be enough.
She could leave and call the police. She could say a thousand things, do a thousand things to jeopardize the cover I’m about to draw over Richard’s life. Or maybe she’ll let this happen, then try to forget I ever existed.
I’m a fool—I want more.
“The gallery,” Justine says softly. “Anything else?”
“Remember the message I told you to leave?” I ask; she nods. “Make it an hour and a half instead. Apologize for staying so late.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Richard mutters.
Her eyes narrow, jaw tight. “After all that you’ve done? No, Richard. It’s worth absolutely every cent.”
“This is murder!” he snaps. “You’re having me murdered over, what, a couple of affairs? Some bruises? Not getting your paintings on a wall?”
“Because you made me small,” Justine hisses back. “You cut me into tiny pieces over years and years, and hurt who knows how many girls in the process. You hid behind Schafer and your academic acclaim, which you wouldn’t even have if I hadn’t given you everything!”
The burst of anger fades, and she starts to laugh.
“It’s why I even had the money to do this, you know. I worked late day after day to make us comfortable and happy, but as long as the mortgage was paid, you never asked where the rest went. You were too busy getting your rocks off.”
Richard tenses up again, only to twitch when my barrel makes a cool reminder against his reddening brow. “And every single one of them was better than you.”
“Now, let’s not be rude.” I fit my pistol right under his cheekbone, as if to put a bullet through Richard’s tongue. “Justine, you need to leave.”
She looks at me with so much longing I almost drop the gun. It’s a heady cocktail of desire and regret, topped off with a splash of pain.
“Right. Okay.”
She turns on her heel and takes her purse and keys with her. I catch the start of tears in dark eyes as Justine pushes through the front door, then slams it shut behind her. More than anything, I want to chase her. Instead, I tighten my arm around Richard’s throat, knee pressing in behind his.
“We’re going upstairs.” Every word is an order, framed in iron. “Fight, and I’ll throw you back down them. Easiest accident in the world.”
When Richard grunts in agreement, I start walking him to the stairwell. He could make things difficult for me, but I’ve known a lot of targets like him. Death scares them, of course, but pain is so much worse. If I convince someone with that mindset that they’re about to suffer, half the time, they’ll walk right into the trap to end things quickly.
I lead him down the hall and into his office, using Richard’s body to bully the door open for me. “Now, we’re going to open your safe.”
“How the hell do you know I have a safe? Even Justine doesn’t—”
I interrupt him with a soft laugh. “You gave me the keys to your house so I could kill her, Richard. Did you think I wouldn’t look everywhere? I found all your secrets.”
“Fuck.” His shoulders sink. “There’s no money in there.”
“I’m not looking for a bonus.” How gauche. “But whatever deal you wrote up with Schafer, you didn’t keep any of the details at the university. So I’m guessing they’re in here, aren’t they?”
Richard goes rigid. “How do you even know about all that? Justine couldn’t have figured it out.”
“First off, you should give your wife more credit.” Not that they’ll be married for very much longer. “And second, I was present for that phone call you had with him, right after Mandy Carr ran out of your office.”
“That’s fucking…that’s fucking impossible,” he gasps.
This is the moment I
treasure, the trap snapping shut around my target with no way to escape. There’s nothing like it.
And there’s no point in arguing with him. “Fine, then. I’m psychic. Open the safe.”
With shaking hands, Richard reaches for the print hanging on the wall. It’s a cheap copy of a Lyall; her work deserves better. He sets it aside on his desk, revealing the little black door underneath. The safe is cheap too; I could have busted it open when I scouted the house, but the pieces never would have fit back together.
He spins the combination out but misses one number. With a curse spit under his breath, Richard tries the lock again and manages to open the door. A couple of stock certificates are inside, along with one sealed envelope.
The moment his fingers seize the latter, I tighten my grip again. “Don’t get any cute ideas about tearing that in half.”
He’s sweating now, fear bleeding through. “What do you even want with this?”
“That’s none of your business.” With the gun still against Richard’s cheek, I release his throat to take the envelope and slide it into my jacket pocket. “But you’re exactly as predictable as Justine told me you were.”
“What the hell would she know?” Richard grits out. “You can’t trust her. Just watch, you kill me, and she’ll go right to the police to make sure you get locked up for it.”
No, she won’t. If nothing else, I’m sure of that. “I’m starting to think you’re the one who doesn’t know anything about your wife. She’s smart, Richard. Clever, empathetic, gorgeous. What else did you need?”
I know the answer is power. That no matter how much he cornered Justine and bent her to serve his ambitions, it didn’t compare with the rush of violating his own authority, crossing lines with his students and getting away with it.
He chuckles. “High compliments for a killer. What, are you falling in love with her or something?”
Maybe.
Yes.
My silence catches him off guard. I start to walk him back out of the room, but Richard goes limp, his weight sinking like a stone. It’s a simple trick, but an effective one. I can’t keep him up with one arm, not without doing damage I won’t be able to conceal.
