Page 3 of Roaming Holiday

“Wes, you’re never a bother. Me and Mom are worried. You should be with family right now.” Her concerned blue gaze melts my heart a little, so I look away. I spot a fly on my open window and hear a nasally beep-beep from a motorbike on the street.

“It was just a job,” I say. “I have more than enough money saved to last me until I get another one.”

“I’m not worried about the money or the job. I’m worried about my little brother.”

I open my mouth to speak; no words come out. It’s hard to tell her not to worry about me when I’d be just as concerned if I were in her place.

Questions and concerns are a constant when your brother pops up out of the blue after years of radio silence. But there was no purpose for me in the underground anymore and I’m skeptical of my purpose in my family’s life, too. If I tell Cora that, she’ll panic, and she’s too good to worry about me. Guilt shreds my gut. I don’t know how to get rid of feeling useless if I’m not hunting or eliminating my targets. It solidifies my identity as a ghost.

“If you’re not killing men for me, then what are you good for?”

I don’t resent Santiago for saying that. For six years, that was my duty.

I glance around my dingy room. The French doors leading to the kitchen have hand-cut sheets nailed above the glass to give me some hint of privacy. Not that my roommate ever leaves his cave.

Before I can convince Cora of something I’m struggling to convince myself, John shouts, “Babe! Where are my keys?”

My sister looks off-screen. “Where are you going?”

“To get ice cream.”

“I haven’t cooked dinner yet!”

“Well, then when’s dinner?” John asks.

She scoffs. “You know, you can cook, too. If you—” She cuts herself off with a groan. “Wes, I gotta go.”

Thank god.

“All right.”

“Love you. Call Mom,” she insists.

“Love you, too. I will.”

Cora hangs up FaceTime, but I still catch her saying to John, “You never help?—”

I chuckle and toss my phone across my bed as another call comes in. My stomach clenches at the name. Jack Costas.

Police sirens erupt from the street below, and my heart lurches from the sudden sound. Memories begin to surface, ones I’d prefer to forget.

But I can’t decline this call.

With a sigh, I answer. “Jack.”

“I half expected you to send me to voicemail,” he says in Maldanian.

I switch languages to reply. “It’s rude to ignore the man who saved my ass. What can I do for you?”

“Got a job for you. It’s temporary, but it could help you out.”

“I’ll take anything,” I admit. “What is it?” I glance at my door to ensure it’s shut when my roommate lets out a string of curses at his video game.

“Can’t speak of it over the phone. Gotta come in.”

I sit up. “All right. Where should we meet?” I don’t have expectations for this job. Expectations cost money, but I don’t anticipate Jack’s reply.

“The royal palace.”

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