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Prologue
~Faith~
Yet another plan has failed. Why won’t he die?
“Can I bring you anything else?” I ask as I hand a fresh roll of toilet paper through the crack in the door.
Glenn has been in there for over an hour, pooping his guts out. Although that’s not entirely accurate. I onlywishhe was. Instead, the quadruple dose of laxatives I baked into tonight’s enchiladas didn’t have their desired effect.
Did the heat damage them, or does he just have cast iron stomach? Maybe I didn’t use enough, but I swear, I gave him enough to take down a small horse. Yet, the worse it seems he’ll get is a bad case of hemorrhoids.
“Water,” he croaks, his voice dry.
“Okay, hon. I’ll be right back.” I’m trying to sound sympathetic, but I’m really apathetic. I want my husband dead, but no matter what I do, he just keeps on ticking.
As I head to the kitchen to retrieve the glass of water, I run through the mental checklist of my most fervent attempts to rid myself of the lying toad of a man currently blowing up the guest bathroom.
I started out slow, the idea of murder making me shake in my boots, the fear of jail time giving me the worst anxiety. But with each failed attempt on Glenn’s life, the desperation to rid him from my life grew, until it is what it is now: a monster that demands to be sated.
I’ll be honest and say that I never felt as deeply for my husband as a woman should before I agreed to marry him, but he was an end to a means. The tipping point came two years ago when my worst realizations that Glenn was lying and sneaking around behind my back were confirmed. After months of suspicion, I’d followed him toherhouse, and lo and behold, there he was, greeting her at the door with a hug and kiss before going inside. He didn’t arrive back home for another four hours. Being a housewife by his design and having no resources to make my break beyond a minute amount of spending money culled from a menial part-time call center job, I endured his abominable ways for months, watching him come and go each day and night, knowing what he was doing and growing angrier by the minute. The thought to kill him sprung to life, born from a simple smirk. Thesmirk that broke the camel’s back, if you will, inspired by a simple question from me: “You’re going to seeheragain, aren’t you?”
My first attempt was simple: a little ant poison in his morning coffee. With all the sugar he added, he didn’t even notice, until later when his stomach took a turn for the worse. The sickness passed quickly, however, and he chalked it up to a case of food poisoning.
The second attempt was actually full-blown food poisoning. When approximately seven million people around the world die from it each year, I’d hoped he’d be one. No such luck. A small case of indigestion was my only reward.
Glenn’s peanut allergy was my third attempt. A classic case of “accident on purpose.” He’s always been careful to avoid anything with peanuts in it, but this time, I made sure to add a little to a batch of healthy cookies to help him lose weight—likely for his new obsession that occupied all of his free time. My joy when his throat closed up, and he struggled to breathe was short-lived, however, when he demanded that I get the new EpiPen he’d purchased without my knowledge. Since I hadn’t accounted for his cell phone and his immediate 9-1-1 call for help, I had no choice but to save his rotten life. Since then, I try to locate and eliminate all EpiPen sources when they enter the house, in case an impromptu moment arises in which an allergy strikes.
That brings us to attempt number four. Sleeping pills. Glenn has always had a problem with insomnia, resulting in a number of trial drugs to help him cope with it. Crushing several and dissolving them in his dinner had been an act of pure genius, in my opinion. And when he grew tired and I suggested a nice bath to help him relax before bed and hopefully aid in a good night’s sleep, he’d taken it. Only I’d accidentally given him too much, and instead of drifting into a deep sleep and slipping under the water to his death, he spent an hour vomiting.
No more pills after that. It was too hard to get the dosage right, and of course, I didn’t want to get caught. I needed to keep suspicion away from myself. Then Glenn told me he wasn’t happy with the way things were going between us, and there needed to be some changes. More specifically,Ineeded to make some changes—or we might end up looking at a divorce somewhere down the line…and that’s when the clock that had been ticking in my mind suddenly broke, and I knew I had to disappear him from my lifeyesterday; otherwise, that life insurance policy would end up a total waste.
The laxatives were my last resort to an “accident on purpose” attempt. As I held the glass under the faucet and watched the cool water climb to the top, I knew what I had to do.
I needed a hitman.
Two
~Declan~
I’d heard about the Craigslist Killer in the news. It was a big deal. It shocked the nation. But anyone with half a brain would have been wary of strangers coming to their door for free shit. Fortunately for me, a lot of people function on a lot less than that, and my business is booming.
My name is Declan, and I’m a hitman.
It wasn’t something that happened on a whim. I’ve worked around and in conjunction with mafia my whole life, but I’ve always been, and always will be, an independent contractor. With a background in the military and a family with criminal ties, it was an easy profession to fall into after I left the service. And the gig pays well. Like, really well. I don’t want for a damn thing, and I can choose my own hours, be my own boss. Best of all, it’s not something you can claim on your taxes, so Uncle Sam can’t even touch me. I’m the ultimate freelancer. You can’t beat it. Of course, being a hitman comes with risks…if you don’t know what you’re doing. And I do. I know my job, and I do it well, which is why I have repeat clients…and for a small business owner like me, word of mouth is killer—no pun intended.
I specialize in make shit look like an accident, but when the situation calls for it, I can make it look like a series of unfortunate events or just pure cosmic destiny. I’m twenty for twenty this year alone, and there are still six months left on the calendar. It’s been a good year for killing.
What kind of person would choose to be a hitman, you might ask? A psychopath. But unlike a psychopath, I don’t simply enjoy killing. It’s a job, and like any job, at the end of the day, I hang up my weapons and become a regular Joe who drinks a beer while watching football and yelling at the TV. Okay, maybe not that average. I don’t waste time on sports or TV. I have much better things to do with my time.
I read through the request that came in an hour ago. It’s from a woman; I can tell by the way it’s written. Although the information isn’t nearly that specific, the message is designed in such a way that it’s transparent to me what she’s asking for, while any layman would have looked right past it.
Hi Assassins89, Do you do plumbing? I have a leak that needs taken care of right away. Please give me a call at your earliest convenience to discuss.
The request is designed as it should be. Word of mouth is the foundation of any sole proprietorship, even one like mine. Scary how many people out there find a need for someone like me, isn’t it? I don’t ask how or who or why. I just do my damn job.
Below is a number that I plug into my phone. As expected, the woman picks up on the first ring, clearly eager to get started.
“Hi,” I say in my usual friendly tone. “I’m responding to your message on my ad. I do plumbing.”
