Page 58 of Assassin Anonymous

I laugh, and it cracks something open inside me, and I have to force myself to keep from crying. She stops what she’s doing and looks me in the eyes. But she’s not just looking at me, she’s plucking through the strands of my life with her gentle brown eyes.

And she asks me, “Are you happy?”

I don’t need to answer.

She knew it before she asked.

She puts down the wipe and leans forward and kisses me, and in that moment, I find a thing I never even knew I was looking for.

I feel safe.

9

A man’s friendships are one of the best measures of his worth.

—Charles Darwin

Bushwick, Brooklyn

Now

The ringtone stops and the call times out. Kenji didn’t answer when I got off the plane and he’s not answering now. I still don’t know what I’m going to say to him, or precisely why I’m calling, but it’s something to do with my time, other than disappear down a dark little hole in my head and never come out.

I stick my phone in my pocket. I want to believe he wasn’t involved, but I’m having a hard time. After he went against the Yakuza, killed his brother, and dishonored himself—the worst transgression someone in his position could commit—he fled to the States, unable to return home, unable to access anything from his previous life. He showed up in New York with the money in his wallet and the clothes on his back. I admired that about him. I sometimes wonder if I would have stuck with the program this long if I didn’t have fat stacks of cash to keep me warm at night. I don’t have to work another day in my life—even if some days it’s hard to enjoy that comfort when I think about where it came from.

Is that why Kenji seemed cagey when we last spoke? I thought it was because we were trying to obscure our conversation. Was it something else? Did he hire the Russian, or just sell me out? Why would he toy with me like this? None of it makes sense. Hearing the word Sanjuro felt like a sledgehammer on my heart, and the psychic pain of it is still ringing through my body.

I thought he was my friend.

I take the six-month chip out of my pocket, turn it over in my hands. He gave me this. He was so proud of me. He was so excited for me to trade it in for the next one. It feels different now, like the weight of it has changed. It feels lighter. Cheaper. Fake.

“What’s that?” Astrid asks.

I shove it back in my pocket. “Nothing.”

“Whoever this is, I hope they show up soon.”

The concrete steps leading up to Valencia’s apartment are freezing, but at least the ground is dry. I could get us inside easily, to wait where it’s warm, but surprising killers is never a good idea, even if they’re reformed.

I’ve been here before. One night, maybe six months ago, after a meeting, we went out for drinks. She talked about the desire to be a mom, and we both got drunk enough that she decided I had good genes and it’d be cheaper than going to a sperm bank. We got here and were nearly naked when she stopped and looked me in the eye and seemed to recognize something and hit the brakes. She didn’t say why, but I respected it and knew it was for the best. Preserving the safety and sanctity of the meetings was more important than getting laid, and I figure she was thinking the same thing.

If I had a choice I’d be here alone, but when I suggested finding a hotel for Astrid and P. Kitty to hole up in, she flipped. Told me she wouldn’t be the woman in the hotel. Bringing her with me compromises both Valencia’s identity and anonymity, but I couldn’t think of a good way to explain that.

So here we are.

P. Kitty yowls in his carrier. I reach a finger through and scratch his head.

“We’ll be inside soon, buddy,” I tell him.

“Two days to Christmas,” Astrid says.

“Did you have any plans?”

She shrugs. “Dinner with some friends. FaceTime with my sister, though we don’t exchange gifts. What about you? How does a hitman celebrate Christmas?”

I think back to last year.

The tree. The popcorn. The presents.

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