Page 2 of To All the Men I’ve Killed Before

Terminal B, LAX airport, Los Angeles, TWELVE DAYS EARLIER

Okay, this is fine.

I don’t need to get stressed about it.

It’s just a bag. Just a missing bag.

With all my fucking stuff in it.

‘Sorry, ma’am,’ the member of staff at the Baggage Service Office who looks like a Victoria’s Secret model is saying. ‘You’re absolutely certain the bag was not on the luggage carousel?’

I grit my teeth.

‘Yes,’ I say, trying to move my rictus lips into a smile, because this is about the fourth time I’ve explained this to her. ‘I’m absolutely certain that after standing at the carousel for over an hour and watching people collect their bags until it was completely empty, that mine was not there.’

She frowns hard at me, her perfect brows almost touching. She’s trying to decide if I’m being an arsehole or not.

I’m trying to not be.

I’m really trying.

‘Okay, ma’am, well, as I explained, you’ll need to fill out a Property Irregularity Report and then I’ll be able to give you a reference number.’

A reference number? I don’t want a fucking reference number. What I want is my suitcase.

‘Okay,’ I say through my teeth. ‘That’s great.’

She hands me a form and gives me a tight little smile of her own.

‘We do ask you to be patient,’ she says, ‘as it can take some time to locate lost luggage.’

I hear my half-sister Antoinette next to me make a noise like she’s choking when the woman says ‘patient’. I ignore her.

I have loads of patience.

I fill out the form and hand it back to the desk clerk, who then gives me this all-important reference number even though I’m pretty sure I’ll never see my bag again. There’s a little pang of pain in my heart when I think about the beautiful tiered Chloé dress that is probably being pawed over by some errant baggage handler as we speak.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ the model-slash-airport-staffer tells me. ‘Have a great stay in Los Angeles.’

Well, how could it not be? It’s already off to a brilliant start.

‘Look on the bright side,’ Antoinette says as we shuffle out of the airport and ready ourselves to fight our way through the arrivals crowds to find our Uber driver. ‘At least you’ve got an excuse to go shopping now.’

‘We’re not here to go shopping,’ I say as we push through a gaggle of young women dressed in fluffy boots and pink cowboy hats, one with a white sash, the word ‘Bride’ bejewelled on it. ‘You know that.’

We’re here for revenge.

And the revenge I have in mind isn’t just going to be sweet.

It will be brutal.

‘I know, I know,’ Antoinette says. ‘We’re here to find and kill Aidan Ward.’

I smile at her, pleased that she hasn’t forgotten the purpose of our trip.

Aidan Ward is a therapist who beat my friend Tor half to death in London before fleeing to LA. I mistakenly gave him the benefit of the doubt when they started dating. I mean, what kind of therapist hits on their vulnerable patient? So we’re here to fix my fuck-up.

Out of all the men I’ve killed before, he is going to be my favourite.