Page 38 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
The wood is dark, probably oak, heavy and polished.
The top is bare, save for a brass watch and a leather-bound notebook with nothing written on the spine.
I hesitate.
Then I open the first drawer.
It's full of socks.
Rolled tightly, arranged in rows.
So precise it's almost unsettling.
The next holds undershirts and folded slacks, stacked in columns so even they look machine-made.
The third has guns. Not one. Three.
All of them black.
All of them clean.
There is a small velvet-lined tray beside them, holding clips, bullets, a silver knife with an engraved handle.
I close the drawer softly.
Across the room stands a tall armoire with double doors.
I open them with both hands.
Inside, his suits hang in severe order, black and charcoal and midnight blue, arranged like soldiers in formation.
Every hem perfect.
Every shirt starched into obedience.
There's a single drawer at the bottom.
I tug it open.
At first, I don't understand what I'm looking at.
There are photographs, but not many.
Some are loose.
Others are stacked neatly, bound with a black ribbon.
No albums.
No frames.
I reach for one.
A younger version of him stares back.
The face is unmistakable—those eyes could burn through decades—but the jaw is softer, the hair longer.
He looks like he hasn't yet forgotten how to smile.
