Page 16 of Assistant to the Assassin

Time is of the essence, I remind myself. I don’t have time to be sentimental right now. I can mourn this chapter of my life later. So, with a little wave I give to the shut door, I head towards the elevator, not looking back.

The next step in our plan is to head to my apartment. In my closet is a go-bag filled with money, a fake passport, my real and a fake birth certificate, some jewelry my parents left me when they died, a photo album, a wireless laptop, and a satellite phone. All I have to do is pack clothes and essentials, get my insulin and other diabetic supplies, then I’ll be on the road. I’m to go to Baltimore, ditch my car outside the BWI Airport, hire a charter plane to fly me to Miami, then meet a cargo ship captain that Henry will pay to ferry me to one of the uninhabited islands in the Caribbean, one covered entirely in jungle and golden sand, with an underground bunker where the two of us will lie low.

I call it Neverland, much to Henry’s chagrin.

It’s a fifteen-minute drive to my apartment, and I spend the time on the road making a couple phone calls. The first one is to Ricky.

“If you’re calling to bitch about your latest shipment—” Ricky begins, but I cut him off.

“Tell Simon that Jacob Harrison is dead and his sister has been avenged. He already paid us a deposit but he can keep the other half.”

There’s a pause, then he says matter-of-factly, “You’ve been compromised.”

“Yes. Cancel our preorders and reservations on all your products. If you require any additional payments, I can send it to you in a couple hours.”

“That won’t be necessary, Ms. Reed.” I hear a sigh on his end. Then he says, in a quiet grumble, “Need any help?”

I chuckle. “You sound so happy to lend assistance.”

“You know how it is. I don’t want to get wrapped up in your shit but you’re also one of my best clients. Just answer the damn question.”

“We’ll be fine. Take care, Ricky.”

“You too, Bethany.” If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he sounds sad, and weirdly, so do I. I never thought I was attached to my black market dealer, but apparently, I am. I think I’ll even miss the asshole.

Focus, Beth. Stick to schedule.

My next call is to Henry’s therapist, and just like last time, she answers rather quickly. “Are you calling once again on behalf of Henry, Ms. Reed?”

“He’s been compromised on a mission. We’re going to a secure location outside the country. I just wanted you to be aware of why Henry will miss his next few appointments, but once things quiet down, we’ll be able to set up Zoom so you two can have sessions online. Is that okay?”

“Of course. Tell Henry I’ll be awaiting a call from him.” Dr. Bennett hesitates for a moment, then she adds, “Remember what I told you about how you can help Henry?”

I nod to myself. “You told me being there for him and showing that I care will be just as valuable as therapy to him. Trust me, I will never let Henry out of my sight again. Not after today.”

She laughs gently, though I don’t know why. “Take care, Ms. Reed.”

I hang up with the doctor, and as I toss my phone onto my passenger seat, my pump and receiver start yelling at me, telling me my blood sugar has gone below seventy-five.

Of course.

Sometimes I don’t start to feel the effects of a low until I read my blood sugar, and this is definitely one of those times. I start shaking and sweating, a hunger like no other taking over me, but thankfully I’m not dizzy. That’s not good when you’re driving.

I dig a chocolate bar out of my purse, as well as a juice, which is a challenge when you’re driving on the highway. As I rip open the bar with my teeth and start inhaling it, I notice Henry’s apartment complex out of the corner of my eye. Without thinking much about it, because I can’t really think that hard when my blood sugar is tanking, I merge into the next lane and speed towards the parking lot, breaking about five traffic laws while I’m at it. I hear horns honking angrily after me, but I’m a woman on a mission and I couldn’t give less of a fuck about inconveniencing others.

Henry gave me a key to his apartment a long time ago, so I slowly make my way up the stairs to the second floor, finishing off my chocolate bar and diving into the juice. I’m done by the time I reach his apartment. I pull out my keychain from my purse and grab on to the key with puppies printed on it. They have big bug eyes, and their tongues are dangling out all cute. For some reason, they remind me of Henry, which is why I picked it as the key pattern when I was at Home Depot a while back. Henry disapproves, obviously.

When the door opens, I toss my wrappers in the trash, then make a beeline for the wedding photo of his parents. I carefully take it off the wall, then I look around for something I can wrap it with. If I put it in my purse without any protection, it will definitely break. I’m carrying a pharmacy in there, and none of it is cushioned.

I go into Henry’s bedroom, searching through his wardrobe until I find a T-shirt—my T-shirt, to be exact. The smiling avocado one I gave him. I tuck the shirt around the picture frame and then jam it into my purse as gently but efficiently as possible. I’m about to leave the room when I notice a few things. For one, this room shows more signs of life than anywhere else in his apartment; there’re personal touches like photos taped to his dresser mirror—photos of the two of us. There’s also a Bible on his perfectly folded and tucked in sheets, a rosary hanging on his bedside lamp, and a notebook on his nightstand.

Curiosity compels me to snoop, so I open the first page of the notebook, and I realize right away that it’s something for therapy. In true Henry fashion, he’s labeled the entry “therapy journal,” as if to justify its own existence. There’s only a paragraph of writing under this title, and it’s incredibly straightforward and methodical, like Henry.

Therapy Journal

Entry 1

Dr. Bennett said I had to write down every dream and panic attack I have. Last night I dreamt that Beth showed up at my door and kissed me. It felt so real that part of me wondered if it had been a dream or not, but something so good couldn’t be real.

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