Page 62 of The Hitch
"Actually, yeah. Show you how it's done, you know?" She slaps her knees and stands, making grabby hands at the gun.
We swap places, and she settles into her position with ease. God, Helena makes it look as natural as breathing. I never thought I would envy something like that. I mean, I never grew up with guns. There was no real hunting culture in the suburbs of Chicago, or at least, not in the circles my mom ran in.
To be honest, I still don't like them as a general concept. But I have a husband who does dangerous work, andIdo dangerous work—occasionally. And now I'm going to be a mother. I need to be prepared to defend myself, my husband, my baby, from anything.
Helena fires off several rounds with perfect form, barely reacting to the recoil. I peer down the lane and see that her shots are perfectly grouped with deadly accuracy. She turns back to me with an overexaggerated bow, and I give her a polite golf clap.
"Thank you, thank you. Wanna get out of here?" She points her thumb over her shoulder, toward the vague area where the car is parked.
"Yeah, alright. I would suggest sushi, but I guess I can't have that anymore." The tears start to well up again, but I force those embarrassing fuckers back down. I can survive nine months without sushi. I'll just… have a lot of tempura. That's safe, right?
"Is there anything you're in the mood for thatisn'traw fish?"
"Hmm. Italian? I hear it's hard work, growing a whole human. And hard work requires cheese on carbs." I watch her disassemble the gun again with her lightning-fast efficiency. "I want to learn how to do that, by the way."
"Good idea—what if I disappear? Who will be your gun caddy?" She looks up at me with a grin. "No one good enough, that's who. We'll work on it next time."
We set off for the parking lot, and while there's still a hint of sadness behind Helena's eyes, she seems to be in better spirits. As we settle in for the relatively short drive back, I open my stupid mouth.
"Did you know Valencia well?"
"Kind of," Helena says as the contented smile falls from her face. "I mean, we weren't besties or anything. But she was always sweet to me when I came to the office. She kept track of what people liked and didn't like. She'd remember things you toldher about your personal life. Like one time, I had just come back from visiting my sister. It didn't go well. But Valencia had at least an idea of how, um, tumultuous our relationship could be. The next time she saw me, she had some Swiss chocolate waiting."
"You like Swiss chocolate?"
"Oh, it's my favorite. And she only knew because I mentioned it, like, literally one time." Helena laughs. "That's the kind of person she was."
I think in silence for a moment. Firstly, I'm filing away Helena's love of Swiss chocolate for literally any gift-giving occasion. Secondly, I think I know a way that I can help honor her memory. "Hey, Helena?"
"Mmhm?"
"I think if the baby's a girl, I want to give her Valencia as the middle name."
She immediately pulls into the shoulder of the highway, slamming the car into park. "Melody, I think that's absolutely perfect. Dante will agree, I'm sure. Speaking of which… when are you going to tell him?"
"Today," I answer decisively. "I'll tell him today. Thank you."
"Oh, thank god. I know we're friends, and we have the girl code, but there's no way I could keep that secret for long. He's my employer, Mel." She gives me one hard look before turning back to the steering wheel. "Shit, we need gas."
"Oh, perfect. I'm gonna go inside and get some more water—want anything?" I ask as she expertly maneuvers the car back onto the highway. We spot a gas station about half a mile up the road, which is perfect timing.
"Um, sure. Energy drink? Any of them are fine."
In short order, we pull into the station, and Helena hands over the black business credit card to the attendant while I hop out and scurry into the little store. I love these places. I love the vastarray of every snack one could ever want on a road trip or when you're stoned out of your mind at three in the morning. Perusing the aisles, I snag another bag of my favorite dill pickle-flavored chips and loop around to the beverage fridges lining the wall.
"Mrs. Lyons?" An unfamiliar voice calls for my attention and I whirl around.
"Yes?" I don't get a chance to see who called for me, as a burst of radiating pain erupts from the back of my head and it all goes black.
Dante
The Eligos and her people scour the office from floor to ceiling and back again. Valencia's body is long gone, of course, removed respectfully—with a few hours set aside for testing before her older brother arrives.
There are no bloodstains on the floor. No smell of putrefaction. The ceiling fan of the break room has been replaced with a nearly identical model, though I can't help but eye the fixture. Unease fills my chest when I look at it, visions of Valencia flashing through my mind.
Roman follows the team of workers around the space, pointing out assorted vantage points and blind spots from our cameras. The Eligos calls for me at the front desk. I give the fan one last look before meeting her.
"Dantalion. You're looking… well, you look like hell." She offers a sympathetic smile. "That's to be expected, of course. My condolences for your loss."
