Page 56 of Mine

“There,” Rien said, and I caught myself from my thoughts. He was pointing to a line in the middle of the page. He began to read it, and I watched his lips move as he spoke softly.

“If there is meaning in life at all, then there must be a meaning in suffering. Suffering is an ineradicable part of life, even as fate and death. Without suffering and death human life cannot be complete.”

I realized as he finished speaking that I had been holding my breath. I let it out and tried to breathe normally.

“Do you believe in fate?” he asked. He looked into my eyes, and his nearness made me dizzy.

I thought of my mother and sister, and of how many times we had ended up sleeping in a shelter. Was I supposed to think that it was all for a good reason? I couldn’t believe that.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Do you?”

“Maybe. Sometimes I think things fall together for a reason. Even if it seems random.”

“Like a desperate actress ending up locked in the library of a serial killer?”

“It must be for a reason. Fate must have a reason.”

“Fate’s kind of an asshole, then,” I said.

“I don’t consider myself a serial killer, anyway.”

“Really? You kill people. That’s kind of the definition of a serial killer, isn’t it?”

“I’m more of an assassin.”

“An assassin?”

“I work for the government. I’m not like some of my friends. I’m not a vigilante. They bring them to me. I know that they’re bad people if they get to me.”

“Are you going to assassinate me?”

I tried to ask it lightly, but he put his hands on my shoulders and turned me to face him.

“Sara, I am trying very hard to get you out of this. It’s difficult. I’m not sure what I can do with you.”

He didn’t seem like he was lying. But then again, he did this for a living. He lied to people and made them feel safe, and then he tortured them and killed them. He could sense my uncertainty and he brushed my cheek with his hand. His palm was warm against my skin. I struggled to keep my distance, to not fall forward to him. I felt like a complete idiot for trusting him but at the same time, I wanted to trust him with all my heart.

I gulped back the feeling. This was pretend. All pretend. But the walls were falling apart between the pretense and the reality, and I was falling for him, despite every rational thought that told me not to. Not the killer, but this man. The man who sat in front of me, tortured by his decisions. The man who could not kill me.

“I’m sorry that we met like this. I am. I want to see the real you. Not the actress. The real Sara.”

He took my hands in his. I was tumbling forward into something I couldn’t understand, something I couldn’t accept, not with the logical part of my mind. I needed to pull back. I needed to distance myself from him.

I drew my hands back, out of his, and closed the book. I looked down at the cover.

“If there’s a meaning in suffering, is that the meaning of your life? Causing people to suffer?”

“It’s a steady gig.”

A sudden jolt of anger pierced me. I didn’t want this. The smooth-talking, cynical Rien. The Rien who killed and didn’t care. I knew there was more to him than that, and now that I had seen it, I hated to have him close himself off to me again.

“You ask to see the real me. Then you joke. This isn’t the real you, either,” I said.

“You think you know the real me?” he asked. His voice was a low growl, but I was too upset to care about the danger.

“That’s exactly it, Rien. I don’t know the real you. I don’t know you at all. I want to.”

“Is that what you want?”

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