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“You have something against sudoku?”
“No.” I raise my hands in mock surrender. “You just don’t look like a math kind of guy.”
“What do I look like then?” he counters quickly. Shame on me for not seeing that coming. I’m not sure if this is a trick question, so I decide to answer honestly.
“You look…pissed off most of the time?” I offer, phrasing it as a question.
His lips twitch. “Fair enough. I suppose that’s because I am,” he confesses coolly.
The air settles.
He sweeps his hand down his body. “You know, I wasn’t always this.”
“This?” I question, unsure what he means.
“The bad guy,” he clarifies. My eyes widen. I wasnotexpecting him to say that. “Before all of this, I was a…college professor.”
I choke on my utter surprise, thumping on my chest to kickstart my heart. I don’t want to make a big deal about it but oh, my god. A professor? Wow, the plot thickens.
“I taught mathematics at Columbia University,” he continues, lost in what seems like another era. “I suppose you could call me a nerd.”
I scoff. Saint and nerd are two words I would never associate together.
“Now I understand the sudoku fascination,” I say evenly, desperate for him to share more.
He stares into the fire. “As mundane as it is, it’s the one thing that anchors me to that life even though it feels like a lifetime ago.”
“How long ago was that?” I ask softly, not wanting to press too hard.
“Two and a half years ago,” he replies blankly; his gaze fixated on the smoldering flames.
I blink once.
For two and a half years, Saint has been confined to this miserable life, one he clearly didn’t choose. He had a good job he obviously enjoyed, but he gave it up to be a hitman. What am I missing?
“Where do you live now?” I’m assuming he no longer lives in America.
“Russia, but that’s not my home,” he replies quickly.
I hug my knees tighter. “Then why do you stay there?”
I’m treading dangerous waters, but this is the most he’s shared with me, and I want to know everything there is about him. “We all have to do things we don’t want to do.” That’s not really an answer, but it confirms my suspicions that he’s doing this because he believes he has no other choice.
“I suppose in some way then, we’re both prisoners,” I say sadly. “So will you go back to America? After your…job is done?” There is no point waiting around in hopes that Saint changes his mind. The job is me as my imprisonment ensures his freedom. No human would forfeit their freedom for the life of a stranger.
He meets my eyes. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.” I remember Saint confessing he won’t stay when he hands me over to Popov. I’m the key to him getting his life back. At least my captivity will benefit someone.
“Maybe you could go back to teaching?” I suggest, but he scoffs.
“There isn’t much that scares me, but going back to being ‘normal’ is one of the only things that terrifies me.”
“I don’t understand. Isn’t that why you’re doing this?”
He reaches for a twig and begins to draw circles absentmindedly in the dirt. “I can’t go back to working nine to five, living in the suburbs, and having barbecues on the weekends.”
“Why not? It sounds like a great life to me.”
Just when I think we’ve reached our quota for talking, he reveals, “Sooner or later, this…darkness within me”—he places a fist over his heart—“will need more. I’ve seen and done so much, I can’t go back to being normal because late at night, when everyone is safe and sound in their beds, everything I’ve done will come back and haunt me, reminding me that there isn’t a ‘normal’ for someone like me. I need the darkness to survive. It’s the only way I can live with what I’ve done.” He lowers his head, his hair shielding his face.
