Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 114260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
I look over at him. He’s still dead asleep with his arm slung over his head.
God, did he give it to me good tonight. It’s rare that he knocks himself out this hard. Poor guy. I turn with my back to him and walk to the little sitting area in the living room attached to his bedroom.
I nestle into the corner of the couch and pull a tattered blanket from the back. He says this was the blanket he used when he bought his first office, so he’ll never get rid of it. I like using it. It makes me think of a younger Cain and feel an imagined connection we didn’t have when we were younger.
I flick on Cain’s phone and enter his password.
Wrong password.
I frown, and enter it again, slower this time so it’s more deliberate.
Wrong password.
I stare unblinking at the phone.
Did he change his password? I’m not going to wake up the poor guy to ask him that. I frown and try one more time.
Phone locked for fifteen minutes.
I didn’t think twice about using his phone before, but now… an odd sense of guilt consumes me.
Is he deliberately trying to get me not to use his phone? I try to think when the last time was that I used his phone and can’t remember. I wasn’t paying attention.
Sometimes people change passwords and just forget about it, I reason. But not Cain… Cain’s a creature of habit, and has very, very deliberate passwords that he never changes.
I go to the closet where I keep my personal things. It’s filled to the max with clothes, shoes, bags, and jackets Cain’s bought me. He loves to spoil me, and in recent months has realized that what I like above all is guns and trucks, so the clothing purchases have tapered off. I smile to myself sadly, running my hands over soft, silky tops and luxurious leather shoes and boots.
I don’t want to look at my mother’s diary. I don’t know if I’ll like what I find if I finally figure out those mysterious entries.
Cain doesn’t know it’s in here. I tell him everything else. It feels odd hiding this one thing from him.
I take down a heavy, sturdy shoe box and pull out a slim book—my mother’s diary, nestled into paper wrappings I’d repurposed from a pair of leather boots and wrapped around the diary to protect it. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve read it. I sit on the closet floor cross-legged and open it up.
The front of the book is just a normal diary. She talks about my father, but mostly about me. Violet had her first steps today. Violet called me mama. She was an infrequent writer, so the entries are spaced widely apart, the last one just before my fourth birthday. I can’t believe my baby is four.
Though those are the pages I’ve looked at more than anything, that’s not where I look now. Hands trembling, I turn to the very back of the book where there are tally marks and initials. They fill two pages.
ST. 10/3 150k.
JL. 1/3 500k.
MO. 3/8 1 mil.
Henri said he didn’t think my father was the assassin, yet everything I unearthed when I was younger pointed to my father being the murderer.
My father wasn’t the killer. My mother was.
A cold chill washes over me as I look at the log in her perfect handwriting, slightly slanted right. I’m looking at the log of her murders and the payouts.
I let the feeling consume me for about one full minute. I close my eyes and feel the tingle in my nose, the tightness in my throat, the constricted weighty feeling in my chest, and wrestle with the question that plagued me before, that I can’t eradicate from my mind.
If my mother was an assassin, what does that make me?
There is no question in my mind that I was called to find the person that murdered my parents. I’ve always loved weapons and strength, more than anything really.
And Cain says I’m the best fucking natural he’s ever trained.
Why? Why?
Is it in my blood?
I take the diary with me and put it on the bedside table.
I return Cain’s phone to his charger and go back to bed.
When the bed creaks, he says, “Morning, beautiful,” in that sleepy-sexy drawl that usually makes my heart thump faster. Today, though, I’m in a different world.
“Morning.” My voice sounds distant.
Why would he change his password? Last night, he seemed distracted, but I thought it was only because he often retreats after an intense day at work.
He hasn’t even opened his eyes yet, but lifts his arm to beckon me to come to him. I slide under his arm and nestle my cheek against his chest. He wears a clean, crisp white T-shirt. I close my eyes, the fabric warm under my cheek, as his arm settles heavily on top of me.