Page 2 of The Kill Clause
“Hey, honey,” I say softly.
“I’m thirsty,” Apple says.
“Okay. Let’s get you a glass of water.”
I walk toward her and easily lift her into my arms, balance her on my hip. She’s a little wisp of a thing. Smart and sweet, seriously into mythical creatures. We’ve met once, recently. That’s probably why she’s not scared of me now. Or maybe I’m just one of many strange women she’s found in her father’s bedroom.
“I had a bad dream,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry. Dreams can be scary. But they can’t hurt you.”
I glance back at her father, but he hasn’t stirred.
In the kitchen, she points to a cabinet next to the sink as I put her down. “My cups are in there.”
“Which cup is your favorite?” I ask.
“The purple one with the flowers.”
“Got it.”
I fill it with water, put on the sippy lid, and reach for her hand. We walk back to her princess room—all fluffy pillows and walls painted with nature scenes, rafts of stuffed animals and shelves of books, pink and white. Her bed is gigantic. She looks tiny, like a doll, as I tuck her back in.
“Are you one of daddy’s friends?” she asks.
“That’s right. Remember, we colored that time?”
She nods, looking at me uncertainly. She doesn’t remember, but she’s already learned to be polite, not to offend. They teach us young to please, not to hurt feelings.
“If you’re here in the morning,” she says, “Daddy will make pancakes, and we can color some more.”
“I’d really like that. But only if you go back to sleep right now, okay?”
“Okay,” she says. She’s already drifty, eyelids heavy. I back out of the room and close the door softly. I wait, listening. Wondering if she’ll get back up. But the minutes tick by. Silence again.
What a colossal fuckup. Fuck. Fuck.
Company protocol dictates that I finish the job tonight. And part of that is making sure there are no witnesses. I work very hard to minimize collateral damage on my jobs. Some of my colleagues don’t care about that. I do. No way I’m killing a kid. No way I’m killing her father to have her be the one to find him in the morning. Sorry. Even I have my limits.
I am on thin ice at work. I really can’t afford this mistake. There have been a number of them in recent years. My boss has hinted that I’m losing my edge, that my heart isn’t in the work the way it used to be. I’m not sure what to say to that or what it means for my professional security.
Whatever.
This is a redo. I retrace my steps out through the mudroom, locking the door behind me. Slipping across the property, scaling that wall, returning breathless to my car, parked a mile down the deserted rural road. Now, Iamangry. What if Apple had really needed something with her father in his Ambien coma? What if someone had come forher? Fathers are supposed to protect their children, not selfishly tend to their own needs. My distaste for him, which was considerable, grows.
I text my boss, Nora.Job incomplete. Unforeseen complications. Will redo tomorrow.
Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Apple will definitely be with her mother. I’ll come back for him then. What difference will one night make? Hopefully I don’t run into Santa.
My phone pings. The words on the screen make me go a little cold.
Job canceled. Report to office in the a.m.
I’m vibrating, adrenaline, cortisol careening through my system.
Job stress. It’s a real killer.
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