Page 33 of The Hitman’s Final Job

“I know,” I say for the third time, and hang up, crossing the road to buy something in the gift shop to keep my cover.

Peak Treasures smells like cedar and beeswax candles. It’s the size of a large living room, and it’s filled with so much stock, I’m afraid to sneeze and break something.

Small replicas of the big wooden bear are all over the store. Each wears a different accessory. Scarves. Hats. Umbrellas, and even one with a tiny pair of glasses.

I pick up the medium-sized bear with the scarf.

The woman behind the counter smiles at me. “Good choice. This is hand-carved by a local artist. If you’re here through to the festival, I recommend visiting his stall.”

“Thank you.” The woman is so friendly, I also take a pine-and-cedar-scented candle, which seems appropriate. And then I can’t resist a small piece of pottery that turns out to be a thumb pot made in a high school ceramics class, the proceeds of which go toward the school’s art program. I pay for all three, and the woman wraps them in tissue paper while describing the long list of craft stalls I absolutely must visit at the festival.

Holding the paper bag with my Pine Ridge treasures, I walk back to the truck and think about where I’m going to put them in my apartment. The apartment I barely live in.

Vaughn is already at the truck when I get there, leaning against the driver’s side with his phone in his hand and an expression on his face that he smooths out when he sees me coming.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing important,” he says, pocketing the phone.

Trying hard not to press, I get in the passenger side, set the paper bag at my feet, and buckle in. Vaughn’s life—other than making sure he keeps it—isn’t my business. I need to remember that.

The drive is mostly silent, the radio playing some kind of country music in the background. The valley opens up around us as we leave the town behind.

“I’m going to the lab for the rest of the afternoon,” he says as the farm comes into view. “I’ve got some readings to go through.”

“I’ll stay here,” I say. “I want to spend some time with your squashes.”

He glances at me. “My squashes?”

“I think you could have a few contenders for the dick competition.”

He laughs. “I am not entering the dick— phallic vegetable competition.”

“We’ll see.”

Vaughn pulls up in front of the house but doesn’t cut the engine. He turns to me. “See you later?”

“You bet. Might even have a dick or two for you.”

I get out of the truck and collect the paper bag from the footwell. I don’t look back, but I hear him laugh before the sound of the reversing truck drowns out the sound.

With Vaughn out of sight, it’s time to get to work. Sadly, the squash boxes are not the direction my feet take me in.

ELEVEN

VAUGHN

I’m awake before the alarm, which doesn’t happen often.

When I stay in the lab until late, which is most nights—or was most nights before Silas arrived—I sleep heavily and wake slowly, my body paying the debt I accumulated the day before.

For the last week, I’ve been home for dinner every night without exception.

I tell myself it’s because Silas is a guest and it would be rude to leave him alone in the house all evening, especially when his visits to the lab have been replaced by time spent in my garden.

I’m not entirely convincing myself.

I lie in the dark for a moment, looking at the ceiling and listening to the house. It’s that kind of quiet when the land outside is still and even the birds aren’t yet awake.