Page 10 of Hans


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That’s my signal.

I shift and slide my body out the window.

It’s not until I’m lowering the window from the outside that I realize I should’ve checked and made sure I didn’t leave any hairs on Cassandra’s pillow. My strands are not the bright gold they were when I was a child, but the dark blond color is still nothing close to her wavy black strands.

Losing your fucking edge, Hans. Maybe it is time to retire from assassin work.

Standing to my full height, I reach up and grip the edge of the roof.

Just not tonight.

I heave myself upward and use careful steps to crest the center point of the roof before starting my decline, aiming toward the back of the house.

I know the sightlines Cassandra has from her work desk, so I’m able to avoid her view by aiming for the corner above her bathroom, dropping lightly onto the roof of the garage, then lowering myself to the yard behind. Staying to the side of the yard, I walk the thirty feet across the lawn and enter the woods behind Cassandra’s house.

Then I start to jog.

I stay out of view as I work my way through the woods and around the end of the cul-de-sac until I finally emerge from the same woods behind my own house.

Now, it’s time to work.

CHAPTER6

Cassie

As the VPof sales gets the meeting started, I put myself on mute and casually roll my chair to the side a few inches so I can reach off camera without being noticed. Then, watching my own little video square—to make sure my actions stay off-screen—I pour my to-go iced coffee out of the disposable cup it came in and into my giant thermos cup. I don’t need my coworkers knowing I blew off half the afternoon shopping and buying lattes.

When the transfer is complete, I slowly lean back and bring the pink straw to my lips. And I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes at how good it is.

The boss blathers on, something about the training we’ll be doing soon, but I tune him out. As the head of HR for a global manufacturer, I usually have plenty to do to keep my days busy. But I finished all the paperwork for our newest hire this morning and wanted to treat myself a bit. The nearest Target is fifteen minutes away, and next to my favorite store is BeanBag Coffee, my favorite coffee shop. Stopping there might be the reason I was almost late to this meeting but—I take another sip—totally worth it. And lord knows I need all the caffeine to make it through what is proving to be a tremendously boring meeting.

I unmute myself to agree with what everyone is saying, then mute my microphone again and let my mind wander.

And, of course, my mind wanders straight to the empty glass container sitting on the corner of my little worktable.

I’m tempted to reach out, to run my fingertip along the edge, trace the corner, but I don’t. I keep my hands around my cup.

But I do inhale.

I swear his masculine pine scent clings to the glass.

I noticed the way he smelled the one time I was close enough to detect it. I don’t know if it’s soap or deodorant or a faint cologne, but the memory of it haunts me.

I swear I can smell it at the most random times when I’m in my own home. When I’m nowhere near him.

And I can always smell it when he returns the containers.

The glass is always clean. It’s always on my front step. And it’s always the very next day after I leave it on his. Every time. Every freaking time.

But there’s never a note.

Nothank you. NoI liked it. Nocease and desist. And no Post-it proclaiming what’s inside.

Always the same. Label removed, container squeaky clean.

I don’t even know if he eats what I make.

Does he transfer the cookies into another container? Does he put them right in the garbage?

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