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“No,” she says. “I told you a thousand times. I got it.”
We meet number two on the list, Ian Miller, at his parent’s fortieth anniversary party. We are, of course, not on the guest list, but like most things, this, too, can easily be fixed. I concoct a plausible story. If asked, I will say my company does business with the Millers’ company. Not wanting to seem oblivious, or embarrass themselves, the Millers are too highbrow to press for more.
Sophie and I make ourselves at home. Together we get acquainted with the layout of the estate and the who’s who of the guest list. When the time comes, we toast the older Millers.
At dinner, during the third course, Ian Miller excuses himself to take a call. To the rich, work never ceases. But the call is probably more pleasure than work, which is why it gives me great satisfaction to interrupt it.
Eventually, we meet in the bathroom. It’s horrific, black with flecks of gold thrown in. Sometimes the rich have taste. More often than not, they don’t. Closing the door quietly behind me, I press my back against it, and taking a deep breath, I fish my gloves from my small clutch.
Ian Miller finishes his piss and only then does he turn around.
“I have heard about you,” he says to me. “Charlotte, right?”
Our eyes meet. He is charming, this one. Maybe in a different life, I would have locked the door and turned the water on full blast for other reasons. It’s a pity, really.
“The female assassin.”
“What a funny way to put it. An assassin is just an assassin, no?”
“I suppose you haven’t come to make small talk—or pose philosophical questions.”
“I suppose not.”
“Well then, you’d better get on with it.” His tone is neutral but his eyes are sad. I estimate he has a bit of fight in him.
“Do you want to die?”
“Few people want to die, my dear Charlotte.”
It is a power play to call me by my real name and not Olivia, like everyone else. “I am not your dear.”
“You are the last face I will see alive, so that makes you special, no?”
“No.”
He takes a step forward. “How do you want to do this? Shall I sit? Kneel? Stand, like so? In other words, how do you want me?”
“As you are is fine.”
“Okay,” he says, holding his arms up in surrender. “I am ready.”
I am angry that he is making this so effortless. It is not fair, not after I’ve come so far, all the way to Switzerland, that he is removing all of the satisfaction. He knows exactly what he is doing.
Taking a step forward, I open my switchblade.
“To answer your question,” he stutters, “I am not ready to die and leave all of this. Who would be?”
“But you aren’t going to fight?”
“A woman, no. Never.”
I don’t believe him. “Then, although it will be a lie, I will say in advance that I am sorry. I didn’t take you for stupid.”
“It doesn’t make sense, I know. I suppose not to someone like you.”
I check my watch. “I’m terribly sorry, but you’re right. I don’t have time for small talk. It’s almost time to cut the cake. Chocolate mousse, I hear. My favorite.”
“At some point,” he says, “you just stop running.”
