Page 59 of To All the Men I’ve Killed Before

‘We are,’ I say. ‘We absolutely fucking are.’

33

Kitty’s hire car, outside Flexual Healing CrossFit Gym, La Brea, Los Angeles

First of all we had to hire a car.

Apparently an on-foot observation mission is out of the question.

‘I’ve seen the movies,’ Antoinette said. ‘Cars are the best cover for a stake-out.’

So we headed into town and I am now the proud temporary driver of a black SUV with blacked-out windows.

It looks like something we could be running a meth lab from.

Oddly, it’s quite inconspicuous in LA.

Antoinette has somehow managed to procure a pair of binoculars too.

I don’t ask for details.

For all I know, she’s had them on her this whole time, just waiting for this moment.

We’ve been waiting in the car for hours. Well, it’s actually been about forty-five minutes but it feels like hours. Antoinette’s getting restless, clicking her nails on the dashboard, sighing loudly, fidgeting. I can feel my jaw tightening with every second that passes. The hire car is hot. It smells like the previous occupants, who were clearly weed smokers. The AC is running but all it’s really doing is blowing the smell around the car.

‘What if there’s another exit?’ Antoinette asks for the fiftieth time. ‘I wish we’d brought snacks.’ I’m glad we didn’t because I don’t think I could handle the sound of her chewing on top of all her relentless complaining.

This girl can bring on misophonia in anyone.

‘There isn’t,’ I say. ‘I told you that I checked. Several times.’ The gym, which is actually just a sort of windowless concrete box with a chain-link fence around it, is in the middle of an asphalt parking lot where we are currently situated. It looks more like a serial killer’s storage unit than a gym.

I’d imagine.

There’s one way in and one way out for anyone who isn’t staff and we are perfectly located to spot Aidan Ward if he comes.

‘Be patient,’ I tell my sister. ‘We need to give it more time.’

People have been drifting in and out the whole time we’ve been waiting here. Mostly men whom I’d describe as soft-core gym bros in washed-out muscle tanks and Nike trainers. They all look exactly the same. Like the gym is actually some sort of factory that is pumping them out. I feel my eyes beginning to glaze over and they all merge into one.

Fuck, I’m tired.

I blame the early-morning yoga session.

I’m tempted to close my eyes and take a power nap when Antoinette starts urgently tapping my arm and pointing.

‘Kitty, over there!’ I squint at what she’s looking at. A man is walking out of the door of the gym. He’s in conversation with one of the few women I’ve seen since we arrived. He holds the door open for her and then says something that makes her laugh. We’re not super close but I can tell right away it’s him. The mannerisms, the slight stoop – you’d think he’d find himself a decent chiropractor out here to sort that out – and his signature shitty band T-shirt, which sticks out like a screamingly sore thumb among the muscle-vests.

It’s him.

There’s no question.

The man who broke my best friend. Who made her believe he loved her, then beat her half to death.

It’s him.

And he’s rebuilding and rebranding himself over here in LA with an all-access pass to a fresh crop of vulnerable young women.

I feel a wave of anger and hatred bubble up from my core. It’s so intense I almost choke on it.