Page 99 of Assassin Anonymous

My son.

The next time Sara goes outside, on the porch she’ll find a box wrapped in sparkling red paper with a big green bow on top, placed out of view from the sidewalk so no one walks off with it. Inside is half a million dollars and a typed note, explaining how to spend it to avoid the attention of the IRS.

In the bag at my feet is another note—this one handwritten, explaining who I am, what happened, everything. Along with that: a gift-wrapped present for Bennett. A package of glow-in-the-dark stars for his bedroom ceiling.

The whole ride over I nearly managed to convince myself there existed a reality in which knocking on her door would be appropriate. By the time I rounded the corner of her street, I realized how selfish it would be.

She might guess the money is from me, though honestly I hope she doesn’t.

And if she does, I hope she keeps it.

This isn’t about clearing a debt.

I like to imagine at some point I’ll make an in-person amends, but for now I have to settle for a living amends. Which means sticking to the program, doing my best to make the world a better place, and keeping an eye out to ensure nothing from my past ever blows back on them.

If Bennett can be happy and know what it means to be loved—that can be enough.

That can be more than enough.

I stash the scope in my bag and turn onto the sidewalk, head for the train station that will bring me to the Lower East Side and that little cupcake shop that offers the promise of a peaceful Christmas Eve with friends.

As I walk, I feel lighter. I’m not sure why. I don’t think it’s the money. Maybe it’s the freedom of knowing I could catch a bullet in the back of my head at any second, and the lights would just go out, Sopranos-style, which means nothing matters, but at the same time, everything does.

—

As I step through the door of the cupcake shop, a young Hispanic woman with curly brown hair and a shiny nose ring looks up from the counter.

“Maritza?” I ask.

“You must be Mark,” she says, sliding a white cardboard box across the counter. “Booker called. Said you were coming.”

I check my pocket to make sure I’ve got my Lactaid. “Yeah, he was hyped. Sorry if he got a little intense?”

Maritza makes a confused face. “Intense? Booker comes in all the time. He’s like, the sweetest.”

I stifle a laugh as I pull out my wallet. “Fairytale of New York” by the Pogues starts in on the café’s speakers. I point toward the ceiling. “Best Christmas song there is.”

“Agreed,” she says before placing a small cup of coffee next to the box.

“I didn’t order that,” I tell her.

She points with her chin at something behind me, toward the seating area on the other side of the shop. “She did.”

I turn to find Astrid sitting in the corner, bundled up in a heavy black bubble jacket, a paper cup of coffee on the table in front of her. I don’t know what’s more unsettling—that she’s here waiting for me, or that I didn’t notice her when I walked in. She gives me a little wave, and I wave back, which seems like a ridiculous greeting considering the crushing gravity between us.

I stuff a hundred into the tip jar, wish Maritza a Merry Christmas, take my coffee and cupcakes, and approach Astrid like I’m navigating a minefield. I stop in front of her table and she raises her cup of coffee to her lips, takes a long drink, and puts it back down, all without taking her eyes from mine.

“Hey,” she says.

“How’d you find me?”

“Would you join me?” When I don’t, she takes another sip of coffee. “I’m no Pale Horse, but I’m pretty good at my job, too. I’m not here to cause trouble.”

I pull out a chair and sit across from her, take the lid off my coffee to let it cool. “If you were planning to kill me, I never would have seen it coming. Maritza has seen your face, the shop has a camera, and there’s a CCTV across the street. Too many variables.”

“Just wanted to talk.”

“Right,” I say. “Talk.”

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