Page 1 of The Kill Clause
1.
Ilike to think that Santa and I have a lot in common. First, there’s the breaking and entering. At this, we both have special skills, honed over time.
This house, one of those big white concrete-and-glass slabs that the rich seem to favor these days, is isolated. I easily scaled the fence surrounding the property over by the eastern border, where I happen to know that one of the motion-activated security cameras is on the blink. Not by accident. Likewise, my swift and silent passage alongside the glittering pool, black in the darkness, reflecting the moon, fails to activate the security floodlights. Also not a random malfunction.
Now I stand at the side door, the one that leads into the house through the mudroom. There’s no lockpicking anymore, not at this level. Keys are out. Keypads are in. Codes and fingerprint scans, retina recognition. Seems so modern and secure but almost childishly easy to hack if you have access and know what you’re doing. Which I do. I press my thumbprint to the scanner. The door silently clicks open. Honestly, it’s almost disappointing how easy everything has become.
I push inside.
The dog, a big black Akita named Luke, is at the vet. Also not an accident. Don’t worry. He’ll be fine. I don’t hurt animals.
About to punch in the alarm code at the console on the wall, I see he didn’t even set it. Careless.
The other thing Santa and I have in common is a list. I know if you’ve been naughty or nice. In my case, if you’ve been very naughty and managed to anger the wrong people, I may be coming to see you in the night. I know when you are sleeping. I know when you’re awake.
But that’s where the similarities end.
Santa comes to give.
I take.
Oh, this place. It’s a palace of veined marble, bleached wood floors, and sixteen-foot ceilings. I’ve been here before. But I walk through now, just to make sure everything is as I remember it. I run my hand along the sectional that looks like poured concrete. I happen to know that it’s surprisingly plush, squishy like a sponge. Simple, abstract humanoid sculptures pose on shelves, low tables—dancing, standing at the ready, embracing. I like to think of his decor as spaceship-meets-luxury chic. Billboard-size art on impossibly large walls, a glass-enclosed fireplace, a restaurant-size kitchen with a refrigerator that cost more than my first car. I’m no socialist, but no one needs this much money. Don’t get me wrong. I like nice things, too, but some people have too much.
I listen. Silence.
His bedroom is at the end of the long hallway behind the kitchen. He takes an Ambien at ten, dons his eye mask and earplugs. And he’s essentially dead. The arrogance of that amuses me. That a person could feel so safe in the world that he has no compunction about dulling all his senses to sleep. That he could make himself so vulnerable, so defenseless foreight straight hours. That, more than anything else he has, communicates his extreme privilege.
The towering artificial Christmas tree blinks in the corner. I saw it from outside as I approached the house. White lights only, of course. No ornaments. Silver, not green. A modernistic nod to the holiday, devoid of any personality, sentiment, or religion. It tracks; he’s empty. That was the first thing I noticed about him—that flat, dead, entitled expression some men have. Like the world owes them. Like they can speak but don’t have to listen. Like they can take but only give when it serves them. Like other people exist to fulfill their needs and for no other reason. I heard him refer to his staff as NPCs, non-player characters, like in a video game. Just set dressing. He was joking. But he wasn’t.
Do I sound angry?
I’m not. I’m just fed up. Aren’t you?
He was a surprisingly decent fuck, though. In bed, he was present, creative, attentive, even. Not rough, not vacantly pumping and grunting. It wasn’t bad.
Anyway,someoneis angry. Or a debt must be paid. Or he’s someone’s scapegoat. Or he’s a piece in a puzzle the full complexity of which won’t be revealed until much later, and not necessarily to me. Above my pay grade. Not my business. As I’m often told.
I move through the kitchen, catch my reflection in the plate glass doors leading to the pool deck. Slim, all in black, baseball hat. Not recognizable as male or female. Just a shape in a field of shadows. A wraith.
I move down the hallway. His door is open. I can hear his white noise machine, a fuzzy sound that serves only to annoy me.
I enter the room and stand over him. He’s on his back, arms spread. He trusts the sun to rise tomorrow. And of course it will. But he won’t see it.
For this job, I’ve chosen an ice pick. It’s fast, effective, and silent, and there’s minimal mess. Whoever finds him—probably the maid—won’t see things she can’t unsee. It does require focused speed, physical strength, and the right leverage. There will be no margin for error.
Under other circumstances a job like this might need to look like an accident. An overdose, maybe. A car accident. A heart attack. But no such instruction has been offered, so I’m free to improvise.
The ice pick is in a long pocket of my cargo pants. I breathe and reach for it.
Then I’m startled by a sound behind me.
I spin to see a slight figure framed in the bedroom doorway. Wild white-blond hair, spindly legs, an oversize nightshirt with a glittery unicorn dancing across a field of stars.
Apple. She’s four. And she’s not supposed to be here tonight.
And just like that, I’m time traveling. I am eight, hiding in the closet of my bedroom, watching through the slats as my father beats my mother to the ground. He’s kicking her, and her eyes seem to meet mine, warning me. Her last words to me.Stay in here, and don’t come out until I get you. No matter what you hear. Promise me.We thought we were free of him. But he found us.
Now, my throat is dry, heart pounding in my ears.
