“No.”
“You fucking—”
“I don’t want a litter of bodies down Redwood Drive.”
“It’s not a litter, it’s two. One extra.”
“One or the other.”
“Fuck. Fine. Nathan’s an easier target, so can I at least get a credit?”
“No credits, no refunds.”
“The customer service at your organization is really lacking. Next time, I’m just going to do this myself.”
“No, you won’t.”
The line goes dead. I pry the burner phone apart then toss the pieces in a blender.
Nathan is a problem. It’s worth getting rid of him now, even if it delays my plans for my company by a few months.
He took that dog.
Is Jenna going to be upset when her ex turns up dead?
Yeah, probably, given how teary she was at the funeral of Brock, the YouTube zombie.
She’ll get over it and move on to some new boyfriend who’s equally terrible.
Or he could be the best thing that ever happens to her.
“Not that I care,” I say to the closet door.
My bedroom smells like Jenna—warm pastry and strawberries.
While I wait for showtime, I strip the sheets off the mattress, pull the towels out of the bathroom, and pile everything on the floor for the maid.
Except it all just smells like Jenna. I want to roll in the fabric, bury my face in the scent of her.
“I am too old to be pulling all-nighters.” Shaking my head, I return to my study, drop my phone down, and grab another burner—just in case Salinger tries to check my location—and step out onto the balcony.
The clips for the window cleaners are located at the edge of my terrace. I’ve already had the cameras in the vicinity taken care of. I’ve rappelled down the outside of the tower before. It’s not as tall as the ones in Manhattan, and I’m down on the ground in no time, knees stinging slightly.
If anyone asks, Anton can truthfully say there’s no video footage of me leaving the building. After all, who’s crazy enough to rappel off their own balcony?
My outfit isn’t cool. It consists of generic black sneakers, worn dark pants, and a thrift-store jacket with a hood. My nose and mouth are obscured by a scarf.
I head into the homeless encampment under a bridge, blending in, adjusting my gait and hunching my shoulders. It’s like slipping on a second skin. When my brother and I first escaped my father’s cult, we’d spent some cold, wet nights out here.
There’s a man in worn pants standing near a trash-can fire. I follow him. Anyone would think it’s a drug deal or something and mind their own business.
We walk a ways in silence.
Finally, he speaks. “My brother says you have a name change?”
I nod.
“Let’s go.”
