Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman (29 page)
Read Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman Online
Authors: JB Lynn
I
WAS OVER AN
hour late for my meeting with Patrick.
It had taken all of my willpower to leave Katie’s bedside to ask a nurse to get a doctor. The next couple of hours had been filled with a battery of tests and consultations. In the end, I got a genuine smile from the doctor who informed me that Katie’s prognosis was improving.
“She needs her rest,” a kindly nurse had told me as she’d ushered me out of Katie’s room. “It looks like you do, too. Go home.”
I’d gone home long enough to return God to his terrarium and give Doomsday a potty break. I would have tried to contact Patrick, but he’d blocked the number he’d called from earlier.
So I showed up to his door an hour late.
“I was getting worried.” In pure Patrick fashion, he wasn’t angry or annoyed, just concerned, but I was in defensive mode and ready for a fight.
“You should give me a number I can actually reach you at.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry about that.” He motioned for me to enter his man cave. There were no weapons in sight.
“You can be maddeningly reasonable.”
He stared at me, his gaze cataloging everything from my bloodshot eyes to the bruise beneath my chin. Reaching out, he used three fingers to gently tilt my head back so that he could examine my injury.
“He hurt you.”
“He hurt you worse.” Remembering the sickening thunk Patrick’s skull had made as it bounced off the tiled floor had my eyes filling with tears. The floodgates had opened when Katie latched onto me, and I’d been on the verge of sobbing uncontrollably ever since.
“Shhh.” Patrick led us to the couch. Sitting beside me, he wrapped both arms around me and rested his chin on top of my head. “It’s okay. You’re safe. Everything’s fine.”
I closed my eyes, allowing him to weave a cocoon of shelter around us with his murmured words. It felt warm and safe and right.
“Delveccio paid Katie’s bill.”
“Good.”
“I couldn’t have . . . I’d never have been able to . . . The reason I was late . . . Katie responded to me today. I was singing to her and she grabbed my finger.”
Hugging me more tightly, he exclaimed, “That’s great news, Mags!”
I nodded.
“So why the tears?”
“You almost died yesterday.”
“But you saved me. I told you that your best would be good enough.”
“You should know . . . I screwed up.”
“How?”
“I left my gun in his kitchen. Do you think they’ll find it? Do you think they’ll be able to trace it back to me?”
He chuckled. “No, Mags. You’re perfectly safe.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Even if they did survive the heat of that fire—and I’m guessing nothing did, considering how hot I heard it burned due to all the explosive material Gary had stashed there (that is, after all, why I’d blown out the pilot light, in the hopes of destroying the evidence)—your prints aren’t in the system. With the exception of the speeding ticket you got a few years back, you’ve got no record whatsoever. I checked you out before I met with you the first time.”
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed that you’ve got one less thing to worry about.”
“I’m not.” I was actually relieved, but that reaction was immediately replaced by another worry. “It’s just that I don’t know what this personal thing you wanted to discuss is about.”
I felt him tense.
My sense of safety evaporated.
Releasing me he got up, crossed the apartment, and leaned against his kitchen counter. I didn’t like the look of this.
“Can I ask you something first?”
“Sure.”
“Why’d you take the dog?”
“She needed a place to stay . . . besides, I owed her.”
“You owed her?”
I nodded. “She saved me. She helped to save you.”
“How do you figure that?”
“She helped me to drag you out of the house.”
“She helped . . .” he trailed off, deciding not to voice his disbelief. “Do you remember when we were at the cemetery the second time?”
I nodded and hung my head. Yet another of my mistakes. I’d been convinced he was going to kill me and had attacked him.
“I tried to tell you there.”
“Tell me what?”
“But you weren’t listening. You were so wrapped up in that stuff that’s always going on in your head.”
“Tell me what?”
He rubbed his chin nervously.
Now I was really getting worried. Whatever he was about to reveal was causing Mr.Unflappable consternation. It couldn’t be good.
“It took me a while to put the pieces together,” he said slowly.
“Pieces of what?”
“I need you to promise to not freak out.”
“You taught me to use a gun, you helped me to plan two murders, you partnered with me to pull off one of them, and in all that time you never asked me to promise not to freak out, but now you’re asking?
That
is freaking me out!”
“Your sister Marlene is alive.”
It felt like all the air had been sucked right out of the room and I was oxygen-deprived.
“You said you’d buried two sisters and the third was probably dead too, but she isn’t. At least she wasn’t six months ago.”
After the emotional roller-coaster ride I’d been on today from the low of my visit with my father to the high of Katie’s response, this news was just too much. I swayed woozily.
Patrick rushed toward me, catching me as I pitched forward. I would have fallen face-first onto the floor, but he knelt in front of me, his hands on my shoulders holding me up.
“I’m sorry, Mags. I couldn’t think of another way to tell you.”
He had to be wrong. I’d given up on the hope that Marlene was still alive years earlier. It was easier to believe that horrible reality than it was to think that she just wasn’t getting in touch, because that would mean she’d never forgiven me.
“I busted her six months ago. I didn’t know then who she was. I didn’t figure it out until I saw that old picture of her in your place. And even then I wasn’t sure. I had to do more research.”
“She’s alive?”
He nodded. “If you want to try, I might be able to help you find her.”
My niece might wake up, and my baby sister was alive. I’d never been so happy in my life.
I tried to smile. I tried to thank Patrick, but the feelings were just too much for me.
Falling into Patrick’s arms, I burst into tears. Not the trickling droplets that had dripped down my face in Katie’s room, but great, big, heaving, body-wracking sobs. I’d never been so fucking happy in my life.
S
O NOW YOU
know how I got into this line of work.
And no, I know you’re wondering, but I didn’t visit my mom on her birthday. I was afraid that in my highly emotional state they might lock me up, too.
I couldn’t take that risk. I had too much to do:
• a niece who needed curing
• an aunt who needed help staying clean
• talking animals to care for
• a new career to nurture
• bridesmaid duties
And, oh yeah, even though I didn’t know it at the time, I found out not long after that that I needed to kill someone at a wedding. . . .
T
HIS BOOK WOULD
not have been possible without the support of the following people:
My amazing critique partner Cyndi Valero who bugged me to write with “that voice” for a couple of years, before I wised up and took her advice.
Victoria Marini, my agent, who enthusiastically embraced “that voice” and this story.
My editor, Lucia Macro, who pledged to help me maintain that voice, and to the entire team at Avon for their great work.
Those who read the manuscript early on (I’d tell you who they were, but then I’d have to kill you) and let me know the voice was working.
Doug . . . who has the misfortune of living with “that voice” in real life.
And last, but certainly not least, Mr. Coffee . . . who fuels that voice.
A lifelong resident of New Jersey (something she hopes you won’t hold against her), JB Lynn doesn’t care if the cup is half full or empty; all she cares about is whether it’s regular or decaf! She writes with a parrot on her shoulder, two dogs at her feet, and a patient husband in the next room. To learn more about JB and her books, please visit www.jblynn.com.
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This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CONFESSIONS OF A SLIGHTLY NEUROTIC HITWOMAN
. Copyright © 2012 by JB Lynn. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition February 2011 ISBN: 9780062134662
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062134639
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