Page 1 of Faded Rhythm

1

King

I’ve never killed awoman this fine before.

Doesn’t mean I won’t. It just means this is a novel experience for me. And with all the shit I’ve seen, and all the shit I’ve done, novel experiences give me a thrill I can’t bring myself to ignore.

But the show must go on.

It’s Tuesday. 11:36 a.m. I pull out my notebook and record that as she walks out of her yoga class clad in grey leggings and an oversized pink hoodie, her designer sunglasses perched high on her head. Her hair’s pulled back in a bun today, which I can’t say I’m a huge fan of. She usually wears it down around her shoulders.

I like that she wears her hair natural, and the fact that she switches it up pretty often. When I flip back through my notes, I see I’ve done a good job cataloging her various styles—the bun I hate, straight, wavy, fluffy, stretched out afro, high ponytail, low ponytail. None of this is particularly relevant, but you never know for sure when mundane details on a target can make your job easier.

I’ve been at this shit for a little over a week now. Recon only. That’s what I told Brett. I could have killed his wife five days ago and been on my merry way, but something about her has me curious.

I pop a grape into my mouth and chew slow, watching her from across the street in my rental. I’m in my usual—a black Hyundai Elantra. Perfect camouflage, because who the fuck looks twice at a Hyundai Elantra?

Even so, I made sure I was safely tucked behind two SUVs, my engine off, my music low. Nas hums through my air pods, just loud enough to make the silence bearable.

The target stops at her white Lexus, digging through her Gucci purse for her keys, completely oblivious to the fact that she’s being watched, her mind probably on the kids or her favorite show or what she’s gonna cook for dinner tonight.

I wonder if she can cook.

I have her routine down. I know her pattern. I have this whole thing mapped. I could kill her tonight. I could kill her tomorrow. Ishouldkill her tomorrow. It would be easy. But something just isn’t sitting right.

I watch the way she adjusts her rearview mirror, checking her lipstick. She rubs them together—her lips, I mean. They’re nice, as far as lips go. Full. Plush. Kissable. If I was the kind of man who let his mind wander, I would be in the throes of a nasty daydream right now.

But I’m not that kind of man.

2200 hours, base perimeter, Kandahar.

The memory hits like a flashbang. It’s sharp and bright, too bright for me to ignore. I crank up my music, but it’s too late. In my mind, there’s a different woman at a different time. But she has that same look. She doesn’t know she’s being watched. She doesn’t know I’m there.

I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Steady. Like I was trained to do.

I’m in my car. In Atlanta. This isn’t war.

Not yet, anyway.

My target backs out and turns left, just like she did yesterday. I slide my car into gear and tail her from two cars back. She drives the same route. Starbucks. Publix. Car-rider line at Moss Hill Academy to pick up two adorable little girls. It’s all very predictable. Boring. Civilian.

She orders the venti matcha latte with oat milk again. I scribble it in my notebook, another useless data point that might be relevant later. I flip back a page to yesterday, where I noted the book that was sitting on her passenger seat.Matriarchby Tina Knowles. I figure she likes Beyonce and knows that book is as close to a tell-all as she’s ever gonna get.

I can’t judge. I’m a student and lover of hip hop. Actors, politicians, the one percent—I couldn’t give two fucks. But rappers are different. Rappers are my Beyonce.

I go on ahead. By the time she pulls into the driveway of her two-story brick suburban monstrosity, I’ve already parked two blocks down. She gets out to retrieve her mail as she does, and I find myself fixating on the way she walks.

She’ssomewhatconfident. I think she knows she’s beautiful. That’s not arrogance, it’s fact. But there’s no performance in her stride. No switch in her ample hips. It’s deliberately plain, the walk of a bad bitch who’s had her light dimmed.

I know exactly who gets the blame for that one. The way Brett talks about her, besides the murder part, tells me how little he respects her.

Some men can only appreciate a woman’s light when it’s shining directly on them.

She gets back into her Lexus and pulls it into the garage. She’s smart; she waits until her daughters are out of their seats andready to go inside, then hits the button to close the garage door, watching until it’s down. Nobody’s sneaking under while she’s still in the car.

I open the glove compartment, giving my Glock a glance. Not today, I tell myself. But, soon.

First, I wanna know why her husband wants her dead.

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