Page 62 of Mine to Keep
“You…” Javier starts then shakes his head, biting his bottom lip. “You mean…you…”
“Yeah. I kill people for a living.”
“Why?” Talon asks. “What did they do to you?”
I’m more shocked that they’re not screaming and yelling at me, though they probably want to. They’re probably keeping their cool so I don’t killthem.
“Nothing,” I say honestly. “I’m a hitman for hire.”
“How…how did you…how did that happen?”
I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. “It’s a long story.”
Javier scoffs, some of that fire he had before blazing in his eyes. “It’s not like we have anywhere else to be. Or that you’ll let us leave.”
“I’ll let you leave, Javi.”
He winces when I say his nickname. “Alive?”
“Of course. I’ll never hurt either of you.”
“Does she know that?” he asks, inclining his head to the door.
I nod, though I’m not sure. Olivia has been out of my life for years. I don’t know her anymore. “I told her you were mine. She won’t hurt you.”
“We should trust a murderer?”
I can’t help it; I wince, dropping my head.
When I started on this path, I had nothing and no one. I didn’t think about what I was doing because I had no reason to feel ashamed. No one to judge me. Now that I do, I wish I hadn’t chosen this path. There was a better way—a healthier way—to get what I needed. Now I’m forever tainted because my grief was too all encompassing for me to think clearly.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Besides not telling you my real job, I’ve never lied to you. Never mistreated you. Never took advantage of you. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Javier shakes his head, while Talon nods. I sigh, suddenly weary.
Talon is the one that answers. “It does, but we’re…we’re afraid. What’s to say you weren’t here to kill us? We don’t have enemies, but you never know.”
It’s a valid question, especially after the truth bomb I just dropped on them. “When I’m on a job,” I say, “I don’t waste time hanging around or getting to know my marks. I would have killed you both in the airport and no one would have known it was me. I’m good at my job. Maybe that’s nothing to brag about, but it’s true.”
Talon twists in Javier’s lap, putting his back to Javi’s front, his braids tumbling over his shoulder. “How did you start working to…kill people? Can you tell us?”
I look at Javier, who pauses for a few beats, then gives a clipped nod.
Sighing, I say, “It’s not pretty. But my life really isn’t.” They don’t say anything, just stare at me with wide but guarded eyes. “I told you two I grew up in foster care and I had a sister.” Theyboth nod. “Patience was her name, I told you that too.” I smile, thinking back on my big sister. “It suited her. She was the most patient person I’d ever known. Sweet. Caring. Loving. And so smart. She was trusting too. Too trusting.
“She was the first person to talk to me when I arrived at the group home.” I pause, then say, “My parents were junkies. My dad overdosed when I was five, and when I was nine, my mom disappeared one day and never came back. I was left home alone for a week. My principal called the cops when I came to school in the same clothes three days in a row,” I give them a sad smile. “We didn’t have a washing machine, and I ran out of clean clothes. The cops found me and took me to foster care. I had been cooking for myself and keeping myself as clean as I could, so I was in better shape than most kids found after being left alone for days on end.”
“Did you ever see your mother again?” Talon whispers.
“No. She might be dead. Might be alive somewhere still shooting up. I don’t know and I don’t care,” I say with a shrug.
When they don’t seem like they’ll ask more questions, I continue my story. “Patience was at the group home for about a year when I arrived, and pretty much greeted everyone who came through the door. We became fast friends. No one adopted her either, so we stuck together while we were there. She was a year older than me and was able to land on her feet fairly well when she aged out. She rented a room from someone for a few months to save up money, and worked two jobs to get a steady paycheck. By the time I aged out, I had somewhere to go. Like I said, the group home we grew up in wasn’t bad, but they didn’t have a ton of resources, so when we left, we only got a hundred bucks and the clothes on our backs. I was lucky that I had someone waiting for me.”
My heart hammers as sadness engulfs me. Talking about Patience is always hard, but I guess it’s even harder because I’m telling the worst parts of her story.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I say, “For four years, we worked, and lived together, hanging out and being family. It was the first time we had that, you know?” Of course they don’t. They have big families they’re close to. All Patience and I had were each other.
“Then one day,” I say, dragging in a steadying breath, “she didn’t come home. That wasn’t like Patience. If she was going to be late, she would have called or texted me. I called the cops and they took a report, but they said since she was an adult, she could come and go as she pleased. Which they were right about, but at the same time, it wasn’t something she did.”
