Page 7 of The Kill Clause
In the room, Nick stripped down to his boxer briefs, and Roxanne slipped out of her dress to reveal red lace undergarments. Then she walked over to me, took my hair out of its updo, and put her lips to my neck, then my mouth. My second kiss. She started to unzip my dress, but I stopped her. The knife. Instead, I backed her toward the bed. Her eyes were blank. She was so fucked up, pupils dilated. It didn’t seem fair. Suddenly, I wanted to leave, but Julian had me pinned with his gaze, like he knew.
“First,” he said, grabbing a bottle of champagne from the bar. Their suite was twice the size of ours, bigger by far than my childhood home, the night outside a Technicolor display of lights twinkling, flashing. Marquees, blinkingsigns, fountains, a thousand hotel rooms, a hundred shows, headlights, taillights, everything in motion. “A toast.”
He took champagne flutes from a cabinet and started to pour. They were making out, never saw him slip the fentanyl into the glasses. A lot. I watched it dissolve, become invisible.
“To new friends and grand adventures,” said Julian. Roxanne looked at him with naked desire.
We all clinked glasses, then drank. Except Julian and I didn’t, both making a show of putting the glasses to our lips. Julian kissed me again. Roxanne and Nick were making out like teenagers on prom night.
I made excuses, slipped into the bathroom, and then stowed the knife behind the toilet. When I returned to them, Roxanne took off my dress; she was wobbly and slurring her words, eyes glassy. The four of us got into the huge king bed. Flesh and lips on my body in places I’d never even been touched, Julian’s eyes on me, Roxanne stroking my face.
You’re so pretty. So young.
Then she closed her eyes, fell back against the pillows, quiet, still. Then Nick fell back. His last action was to curl himself around Roxanne, draping an arm protectively around her.
Julian covered them with the sheet and comforter. We took their glasses from the nightstand, wiped our fingerprints from every surface. We were calm, methodical, as we had been taught. Never panic. Never rush. Though my heart was thudding and blood rushed in my ears. I couldn’t take my eyes off them, couldn’t believe how still they were. I retrieved my knife from the bathroom.
Nora was wrong. It was very different.
When the room was clean, Julian walked back over to the bed and put his hand to Nick’s throat, then to Roxanne’s. He gave me a solemn nod. He was gentle with them, respectful. Ithought of Nora.It’s just business. And I promise you that no one is ever innocent.
We sat awhile on the couch, watching the lights, both of us silent. Julian dropped an arm around my shoulder.
“You were good,” he said. “You’re a natural.”
A natural what? Liar? Killer? If I’m honest, even on that first night I knew it wasn’t for me. And that wasyearsago. It came more easily to Julian.We’re all going to die. What does it matter when and how?I had watched the life drain from my mother’s eyes, my father kicking her over and over. Our gazes locked through the slats in the closet door.
It matters.
Trust me.
“Walk me through it,” says Nora now.
Her office is barren, a desk with a laptop and cell phone, slim and sleek, on the wood surface. An ergonomic chair that looks like it belongs on a spaceship. A large screen mounted on the wall acts like a window, scrolling through images—a Paris street, an aerial view of the Grand Canyon, a towering stand of redwoods, the bottom of the ocean. She stands, straight backed, gray eyes trained on me. I feel like she can see right to the heart of me.
I tell her what happened.
“I’ll go back tonight,” I conclude. “Apple will be with her mother for Christmas Eve.”
“The dates of these assignments are not negotiable, Paige. You know this. There are considerations that are far beyond your pay grade.”
“So what would you have had me do?”
She looks at me with her weird gray eyes. “Your job.”
That’s the color I associate with her—granite. Her hair is a gunmetal silver, shaved short with a sweep of longer strandsshe tucks behind her ears. Her bone structure looks chiseled from stone. She has the pallor of someone who doesn’t get outside much.
“I don’t need to remind you that this is not your first mistake.”
“You don’t.”
She softens, sits on the edge of her desk.
“Be honest with me, Paige. Are you losing your edge? There’s no shame in it. Extreme jobs like this one have a shelf life, you know. You’ve never had any time off. Maybe you need a vacation. Someplace warm. I can arrange it.”
I feel a wave of relief; she’s not going to fire me.
“I’m not losing my edge,” I lie. “I’m okay. Both incidents were judgment calls. Not mistakes per se.”
