Page 107 of Hannah and the Hitman
I sized Kevin up pretty quick. Latino. Black hair he got trimmed at the barber chain store at the mall right down from the place he picked up his no-press khakis and polo shirt. Above his lip was a mustache, although it was pretty patchy, even for a guy who I guessed to be around thirty.
As he eyed my SUV, his brain was probably churning as to why I’d want to buy a ten-year old station wagon or pickup truck.
“Kevin Cortez?”
He offered me a smile, as if we were new friends. “You found me. Looking for another vehicle?”
I walked over to a minivan that had seen better days. “Looking for something with a little extra space.”
“Growing family?”
“Bodies.”
He laughed, but it was totally fake. His gaze roved over me, suddenly warily.
“A friend of mine shared your name,” I told him.
His chest puffed up, pleased as punch to have a friend. “Oh? Who should I thank?”
“Hannah Highcliff.”
His smile slipped. “Nice girl.”
Nice girl?
“Got your phone on you?” I asked, eyeing the car, not the man.
He nodded.
I waited, then when he didn’t catch on that I wanted him to pull it out, I curled my fingers in a come here gesture.
He blinked, then pulled it from the back pocket of his pants.
“Pull up a map app,” I told him.
He looked up from the screen. “You lost?”
“I’m not lost, but I think you are.”
He frowned. “I know this area pretty well.”
“Do a search for clitoris.”
He huffed out a laugh, the kind that misogynistic pricks at bars made when they got together. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He shook his head like I was crazy and typed it in. “Can’t find it.”
“Yeah, I figured. You still can’t find a clit even with a fucking map.”
He finally caught on and was pissed. “What the fuck, dude?”
I stepped close. Real close so I could smell his cheap cologne and desperation. “Leave town. You have twenty-four hours.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “What?”
“Get out of Colorado. As far from Hannah Highcliff as possible.”
