Page 22 of Stolen By the Hit Man
Jasmyn jumps when the far door opens automatically when we step out of the Blazer. “Someone’s here!”
“Nah,” I say, grabbing her hand. “Everything’s powered by facial recognition. Even the doors.”
“You’ll excuse me for being overwhelmed. I’m barely processing the fact that Braydon is dead.”
“Your kidnapper is dead. And so is his uncle, probably.”
She turns to me before we enter the house. Her throat bobs. “You knew it was going to go down like that. You hinted at it earlier. The joke about the spiritual release…”
“Yeah.”
“Did someone hire you to kill my husband?”
It’s not surprising that Jasmyn would think that. Plenty of people have it out for polygamists. The animosity around town has been growing by the day. “It makes sense now. How we met. I led you to him. You flushed him out. And now he’s dead.”
“Jasmyn, that’s not how it happened. I didn’t use you.”
“How much did they pay you?”
“Nothing,” I insist. “I grip her small shoulder and gently squeeze. “But I would have done it for nothing. They’re bad people, Jasmyn. You’re lucky you got out alive.”
She shakes her head. “But you don’t give a fuck.”
“What?”
“You said you do a shot before a job, so you don’t give a fuck. We did a job. You didn’t get involved because you care,” she says, her voice shaking. “You said that stuff about being attracted to me to soften me up. Or confuse me or…or…”
My hand drags over her shoulder, and then one of my big mitts is cupping the side of her face. “Stop it. You’ve got it all twisted.”
Her eyes blink slowly, and it seems like she’s having a hard time focusing.
“Jasmyn, you need to concentrate on your recovery.”
After leading her inside the house, I make her sit at one of the comfy kitchen barstools, then I pull my phone out and text Jefferson.
After some back and forth, he agrees to make arrangements for the doctor we use, who sees us after hours under special circumstances. We pay him in cash and he asks no questions.
Jefferson: I’ll do my best. And I’ll have Georgie contact the group and we’ll get some clothes and whatever else she needs.
Me: Thanks, brother.
Jefferson: Hold on. I’m getting a news alert that there was a shootout at the compound. Two church leaders dead. And police are looking for a Chevy Blazer that fled the scene.”
Instead of replying, I shove my phone into my back pocket and pretend I didn’t see that last text from Jefferson.
Her eyes are on me as I putter around the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
“Making you a proper meal. Ham sandwich isn’t going to cut it. Those assholes haven’t been feeding you, have they?”
We go several rounds of “you don’t have to cook for me,” and “let me help you,” before Jasmyn finally gets the message and stays put at the marble breakfast island, letting me do my thing.
I haven’t needed to use the safe house in a while. I manage to scrounge up a cheesy pasta situation with some of my homemade marinara from the pantry.
“A man who looks after strays and makes his own preserves? Green flags all around,” she says as I work my way around the kitchen, heating up pans on the stove.
“If your barometer for green flags is me, then you really need to work on that,” I say, pushing a plate of bread and butter and a massive glass of mineral water in front of her. “Nibble on that while I make your dinner. You look two minutes from passing out.”
