Page 22 of The Hitman’s Final Job

He nods, satisfied, and steps back from the window. “Good to have you home, Vaughn.”

“Good to be home.”

Pine Ridge has that quality of small places where everyone knows you and stopping to say hello will take as long as it needs to take, whether you like it or not. I run into David from the Bookshelf Café, who flags me down to say he’s just received a new shipment of the Ethiopian beans I like and he’s put a bag aside. I spend longer than I want to in the grocery store because I stop to talk to Maria from Sunrise Bakery about the pumpkin festival, and she tells me her brother has opinions about the judging panel.

I may be a little bit of a hermit, but my home now isn’t just the farm. It extends to this welcoming small town I’ve lived in for the last five years. By the time I get home, despite the jet lag, I feel a little more like myself again.

I’m putting the groceries away when there’s a knock at the door. It must be Tess, which is perfect timing, because I would murder for a sandwich made with her bread, the ham I just bought, and the salad leaves from my patch.

When I open the door, however, it’s not Tess.

It’s Silas, standing on my porch with a bag at his feet and his hands in his jacket pockets, looking at me with those dark, unreadable eyes of his, and for a moment I genuinely cannot process what I’m seeing.

“This feels like déjà vu.”

“Hi,” he says.

I stare at him.

“You said the spare room would be ready,” he says, his voice confident as always. “I might have taken you literally.”

EIGHT

SILAS

Vaughn stares at me like I’m something he’s not entirely sure is real.

I understand the feeling; after all, I stood on this porch for approximately five minutes before knocking and I’m already questioning several of my own decisions, starting with the one where I told myself that showing up at the home of the man I’m supposed to be protecting under the pretense of a casual visit was a reasonable and professionally sound plan.

It’s not a reasonable plan, but it’s the only one I have.

“You’re more than welcome,” he says. “Come in. As long as you need.”

I pick up my bag and step inside.

The house is the opposite of Vaughn’s old apartment in Denver where Rowan still lives. The one I used to visit until it became too much like seeing Vaughn. I like the modern but warm feel here. The furniture is all new and modern-looking, but the bookshelves are filled with novels he’s read and the couch has more than a few throws on it. It’s a lived-in house that suits Vaughn perfectly.

I set my bag down near the entrance before following Vaughn into the kitchen.

He moves around the central island where he’s unpacking a bunch of groceries, and I stand like a fool, suddenly realizing how this must seem to him, especially after our last time together, which feels like way longer ago than a few days.

“After Warsaw,” I say, pulling myself back to the script, “my boss made me take personal time. It appears I’ve been accumulating it for years, and they’ve decided I need to use it.”

Vaughn glances at me over his shoulder. “Forced vacation.”

“More or less. I figured … I figured I’d take you up on the offer. See the farm. Help out if there’s anything useful I can do … Keep busy.”

The last part is true, at least.

Vaughn turns to face me properly, but before he can say anything, there’s a knock at the door.

“I’ll get it,” I say, because I’m closer and because I need a moment away from him to rearrange my brain.

The woman on the other side of the door is carrying two large canvas bags and appears approximately Vaughn’s age. She looks at me with frank, immediate curiosity.

“Hello,” she says. “I’m Tess.”

“Silas.”