Page 39 of To All the Men I’ve Killed Before

‘Right, yes,’ I say, trying to pull myself back into the present. ‘So, rule one is No Women. No matter what.’

‘Unless she’s a psycho stalker threatening to unmask you as a serial killer,’ Antoinette says. ‘Like Hen.’

‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘Maybe we should call them guidelines rather than rules.’

I try not to kill women. They’re who I’m protecting. But Hen was an exception.

It was her or me.

I go on to explain the rest of my code to Antoinette, who nods along with a serious expression on her face.

No one innocent.

No one vulnerable.

Don’t get caught.

And most importantly, the kill must serve a purpose.

We’re not basic murderers. We’re doing this for a reason. We’re getting justice for every woman who has felt the weight of male violence hanging over her, for every woman who wasn’t believed, for every woman who was too scared to speak out.

As I speak, the familiar burning in my stomach starts. The faces of all the men I’ve killed before flash through my mind.

One in particular.

Adam.

Adam whom I loved but who was even more predatory than I realised. The burning intensifies. Becomes a white-hot rage.

I turn to Antoinette. ‘Let’s go out tonight,’ I say.

I think it’s time for a practical lesson.

In fact, I’m itching for it.

22

Bar Next Door, West Hollywood, Los Angeles

Later that evening Antoinette and I make our way along Sunset to a cocktail bar that Antoinette saw recommended on Instagram. The strip is bustling and noisy, crowds of revellers spilling out onto the streets.

‘Looking good, baby girls,’ someone shouts to us as we squeeze past a group of people in cowboy boots and feather boas. ‘You enjoy your night.’

‘How nice is it here?’ Antoinette beams. ‘That would never happen in London. You’d just get a cold stare. Or some mouth-breather telling you to get your tits out.’

The bar is small and busy, but in a good way, a way that feels cosy rather than claustrophobic.

‘Cute,’ I say, looking around at the sepia-coloured space with its low-lit booths and dark leather seats.

‘The building was once home to Marilyn Monroe’s talent agency,’ Antoinette tells me and I stare at her, impressed.

‘I didn’t think you were interested in Hollywood history?’

‘I never said that,’ she says. ‘That old hotel was just a bit musty.’

A young woman sitting in a booth with a group of people grabs my arm.

‘We’re just leaving,’ she says. ‘Do you want our table? So hard to get a seat in here.’