Page 77 of The Hitman’s Final Job

I stand with my soda and think about the photograph in the file at home, the man across the street last night, and the last warning on the back of a photograph I haven’t told Silas about yet.

I should tell him, but I can’t bring myself to do it, and I don’t even know why.

When I finally join the group, Silas puts his empty glass on the table and turns to me. “Dance with me.”

I laugh. “I haven’t danced in⁠—”

“Probably a hundred years,” Silas says. “Come on.”

We start with distance between us. The eyes of Pine Ridge—more specifically Tess—are on us. We dance with the space between us that the music allows, considering the floor is packed with people. We’re just two more people dancing, and it’s fine.

And then it isn’t fine. Because gradually the physics of a crowded dance floor push us closer. A step here, a turn there, the crowd pressing in, and then Silas’s hand is at my waist and I have mine at his shoulder and we’re just here.

He looks relaxed and happy.

I think about him helping at the festival stand this morning. At the pumpkin weigh-in yesterday, taking photographs for Rowan. I think about him in the lab in the white coat with the sleeves rolled up, asking Priya good questions. I think about him in the vegetable patch in the late summer sun. I think about how completely he has become part of this place in a few weeks.

And then I think something I haven’t let myself think since I was eighteen years old and thought I had it all figured out.

I’m in love with him.

I’m in love with Silas.

The realization lands heavy on my chest, followed immediately by the stab of the particular cruelty of timing. He’s leaving in a week.

TWENTY-FOUR

SILAS

The last day of the festival already feels like the greatest day, as if Pine Ridge has left the best for last.

Main Street is at its fullest, with more people than any of the previous days. All the locals, plus visitors who’ve come specifically for the prize-giving and the closing events, are here. The bunting is still bright overhead. The stands are running their last day with the same energy of the first.

At the other end of the street is a stage, and several bands from the county have been playing music all day.

Tess’s stand is doing extraordinary business, and I’m told they’ve doubled the money they raised last year. I don’t want to tell her, but I’ve looked up the charity and donated a considerable amount in the pride group’s name. It’s the least I can do after all the work they’ve done to help people like me who haven’t had a good start in life.

I’ve been here since eight, helping with the morning rush, and I’ve learned more about cake than I ever thought I’d need. Teresa is a chatterbox, and every single customer leaves with at least one more slice of cake or loaf of bread than they had intended.

“You and Vaughn,” Tess says, during a lull.

I hand a customer their change. “What about us?”

“The dancing yesterday,” she says, swaying to the music coming from the stage.

“It was just dancing.”

“It was very close dancing.”

“That’s how men dance,” I say. “When they’re into men. If you want a lesson in how not scandalous that was, you should visit a gay club sometime. What Vaughn and I were doing would be considered extremely restrained.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to a gay club,” she says. “Clayton would come if I asked him. He’d stand in the corner looking confused, but he’d come.”

“I’ll tell you what. If the opportunity ever arises, I’ll take you both.”

My phone rings. Zuza.

“Work call,” I tell Tess. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”