Page 27 of The Hitman’s Final Job

“I think that soil is ready,” Silas says, without looking up.

“What?”

He sits back on his heels. “That patch has been turned about eight times since we came out here.”

“I’m aerating it.” I sift through the soil in my hands. “The moisture retention is lower than I’d like. I’m considering adding perlite to the mix.”

“What’s the drainage like farther down?”

“Better. The issue is in the top layer.”

He stands up and comes over, crouching down beside the bed. He pushes two fingers into the soil and holds them there for a moment.

“Perlite would help,” he says. “But if you work in some compost first, it’ll give the perlite something to bind to. Better long-term retention.”

Who is this man?

“What?” he says.

“How do you know that?”

He shrugs.

“What do you do for a living again?” I ask.

He nudges his sunglasses up his nose. “I am a project manager.”

“Project managers don’t know about perlite and compost binding.”

“This one does,” he says, and stands up, brushing the soil from his fingers. “My apartment building has a rooftop,” he says. “I’ve been growing things up there for a while. In containers, mostly. Whatever fits.”

“What do you grow?”

“Tomatoes. Peppers. Some herbs … I’ve been trying to get a zucchini to work in a container for about eight months. It’s, well, it’s been a process, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Zucchini need space.”

“I know that now,” he says, going back to the beans.

This man who travels constantly for work and lives in an apartment building has been trying to grow a zucchini in a container on a rooftop for eight months. It’s a cruel world when it places the perfect man at touching distance with a Do Not Touch sign when a Danger sign would be more appropriate.

“You should have a garden,” I say.

Silas gazes at the rows of beds, the orchard beyond, and the valley stretching out past the fence line. “Yeah.” His voice is quiet. Wistful. “I should.”

He says it like it’s something he’s been thinking about for a long time. I don’t know much about his life in Atlanta or his work, but I know having a garden is as rewarding as it is hard work. For me, it’s therapy. I love my work in the lab, but even then, the four walls can become too much, and I love being outside. With the long Colorado winters making that an impossibility, I make up for it as soon as the snow thaws and the ground can be worked.

I turn the soil again.

“Stop doing that,” Silas says.

“I’m aerating⁠—”

“Vaughn.”

I put the trowel down.

“Is this weird?” he asks. “Me being here. Is it … is it making things harder?”