Page 8 of Assistant to the Assassin

I shake my head, turning my head into my palm. “Being my assistant and my friend is different than being my girlfriend or wife. If anyone caught wind of what Beth means to me…” I trail off, unwilling to let that scenario play out even in my head.

Dr. Bennett leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “I think this all comes back to your mother, Henry. In the six months I’ve known you, one thing that’s become abundantly clear is that she is the driving force behind every action you take in life.”

I don’t comment, so she continues on.

“Dream journaling and breathing exercises will only take you so far. When we go through something traumatic, our minds shut off and let adrenaline take over. When that’s gone and we’re safe again, all that trauma is still processing, and when you ignore it or shove it aside, you put a halt to it. And in your case, you not only have unprocessed trauma, but grief as well. The only way to finish processing all of that and finally move on is to face the trauma.” Her brown eyes search mine, and I hate how easily she sees through me. “You must let yourself feel, Henry, the good and the bad. And once you’ve done that, you must forgive yourself.”

I nod along to what she’s saying, but I don’t give a reply, and I don’t think Dr. Bennett expects one.

She reaches out, and I watch her smooth brown hand touch mine, showing me what comfort she can as she gives me the harsh truths I’ve long avoided. “You did everything you could for your mother. Even the most powerful people in the world don’t have control over what happens in life, and all we can do in the face of that helplessness is live despite it.”

What she’s asking sounds impossible, but I give her what she wants to hear anyways, knowing she won’t let it go if I don’t. “I’ll try.”

She smiles once again, extracting her hand from mine. “That’s all any of us can do.”

Journal Entry 184

I dreamt of her funeral last night.

There was no body in the coffin we buried. After five months of searching abroad, they declared her dead, and I was forced to accept that I would likely never see my mother again.

I can still smell the freshly cut grass in the cemetery. I can still feel the sun burning the back of my neck as I stare down at her grave. I remember being comforted by the local police chief.

“I’m sorry, son,” he had said, holding his hat to his chest. “Your mama is with God now. She’s at peace.”

But I didn’t want her at peace. I wanted her here with me.

I knew she was out there somewhere. I knew Mama wasn’t with God. I would know if she was. I was sure of it. But what could I do to help her? I was twelve. It was the second time I had ever felt helpless in my life, and I decided then and there that I never wanted to feel that way again.

I cried that entire day, then once I shed the last tear my body could muster, I didn’t cry again for years.

Not until I found her.

Begged, Borrowed, and Cried

Knock knock knock. “Delivery for Ms. Reed.”

My head lifts up from my laptop and I narrow my eyes at the door.

“What kind of delivery?” I shout back, glancing at the monitor to my right, which shows our building’s security feed. My eyes then flicker to my CGM receiver, which buzzes with my blood sugar reading every five minutes. It’s 167—okay but not great.

“A late delivery from the Wright & Co. Laboratories.”

I smile. That’s the name of Ricky’s front business.

“Come on in.”

The doorknob twists and in enters a short Japanese man with a beard and glasses. He gives me a bright smile as he carries our order on a trolly. “Ricky sends his apologies for the late delivery.”

I internally roll my eyes at that, but I continue smiling. “It’s no problem. But since his deliveries usually just show up at my door alone, I’m assuming you’re here in person for a reason?”

He retrieves a slip of paper from his shirt pocket and places it on my desk, his expression turning grave. I look back over my shoulder and find his contact information on it. Apparently, his name is Simon Richards. “Ricky says your boss is the best there is if you need someone taken care of.”

I cross my arms over my chest, feeling my pump buzz against my skin, alerting me it’s going to correct my blood sugar. “He is.”

Simon shuts the office door, making sure to lock it, then he explains, “My family is originally from England, and my sister worked for one of the Liberal Democrat Party cabinet members. The man she worked for was extremely outspoken against the Tory Party, in particular Jacob Harrison, the chief cabinet member. After she and her boss successfully killed a bill that served only to do harm to the poor and boost the aristocracy, the two of them were found dead. Shot multiple times. Other rivals of his have mysteriously turned up missing or dead, but because of his family name and the mercenary group he has on the bankroll, no one has stopped him.”

I reach out and touch his arm, giving a single, respectful nod. “I’m sorry for your loss. Do you know anything about the mercs he hires?”

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