Page 9 of Accidentally Kidnapping the Hitman

“Where next?” I ask, before I can torture myself with that particular train of thought. Doesn’t matter if Annie had a thingfor me years ago; by now I’m a distant memory to her. Nothing more.

“Food trucks,” she says, still sounding dazed. She’s staring up at me, and she hasn’t blinked.

Goddamn clown doll. Should’ve stomped on the stupid thing when I had the chance. Maybe that would’ve helped her feel better.

All these muscles and weapons, all these scars on my hands, and what good are they if they can’t protect Annie Lowell?

It’s a ten minute walk to the food trucks, and I recognize the address. Annie lets me lead her there through the starry streets, taking her hand once more as she trips along beside me, still visibly shaken.

Imagine how scared she’d be if she realized who I really am.

Imagine how badly she’d freak out if she learned I’m a hit man. That I kill bad people for money.

I squeeze her fingers gently, my gut twisting in a knot. For the first time in years, it punches me square in the chest: the thought that maybe I walked down the wrong path. That I could’ve chosen a different life.

There are rules in my work. RulesIestablished. For starters, I won’t kill anyone who’s not evil in their own right, and somehow beyond the reach of the law. In this fucked up world, that still leaves plenty of work to keep me busy.

Rule number two: I don’t take pleasure in it. I don’t drag it out or try to get creative, making my kills into some weird craft project like some guys do. I get in, snuff ‘em out, get gone.

“You warm enough?” I ask. Annie’s still trembling, clinging to my hand like a lifeline. We stroll down the neon-lit streets, past shut up coffee shops and late night laundromats. There’s a breeze, but the night air has no real bite.

“Yeah. Yes.” Annie lets go of my hand, but only long enough to wrap around my arm instead. My heart thuds in response,knocking against my rib cage as her heat washes against my side. Did she feel the old scars on my fingers? Would she ever guess how I got them?

There may be blood on my hands, but I donotwant to scare this girl. She never needs to fear me, never needs to wonder if I’d harm a single hair on her head—I would rather die.

“Do you remember that summer when Dean came home on that motorbike?” she says. “He bought it without telling anyone. Your parents were so mad.”

Ha. As if I could forget. There may have been more arguments in my teenage years than I could count, but I remember every single one in fine detail.

“Vividly.”

Annie squeezes my arm so close, her chest brushes against my tricep. For a moment, my brain fritzes out again, going pure white static. I barely hear Annie’s next words, like they’re coming from far, far away.

“He looked good on it, though. Don’t you think?”

My shrug is jerky. Her silk camisole tickles my bare skin. “Sure. If you say so.”

Annie lets out a dreamy sigh. “I had such a crush on him back then.”

My boot scuffs against the sidewalk and I nearly trip. Yeah, I can scale walls and squeeze through windows and move through strange buildings like a ghost, but apparently I’m about to trip over my own damn feet.

“You did?” I manage, voice strained.

“Yeah, of course. Come on, Wyatt.” Annie squeezes me again. “Youknewthat. You made fun of me for it all the time.”

“Right. Right.”

It’s much harder to navigate our path to the food trucks when my whole fucking world has just turned upside down. I blink around at the trees dotted along the sidewalk; the cocktailbars with their mood lighting and relaxed music; the bus stops and all-night grocery stores. At all the other people out tonight, smoking outside bars or laughing in small groups or kissing in doorways.

When I finally sneak a glance down at Annie, she’s not pale and scared anymore. She’s blushing and bright-eyed, staring right at me like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. The breeze toys with the ends of her blonde hair and presses her silk camisole against her body.

“I always wondered why Dean left.” Her eyes flit between mine. “Why he lost touch with everyone—even his own family. Even his twin.”

Because they were happier with me gone. They could be the picture-perfect family with the son who wasn’t a fuck up. With the son who didn’t go down the wrong path.

“Maybe he didn’t feel like he fit.” My mouth is so dry, and I’m walking forward on full autopilot. Hope my legs know where we’re going, because my brain is locked on to the woman beside me and this baffling conversation. “In that suburb. With our family.”

Annie nods thoughtfully, then pats my arm. “Well, he could have fit with me.”

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