Page 91 of The Hitman’s Final Job

“I know.”

“Are you a project manager at all?”

“No.”

“Do you live in Atlanta?”

“Yes.”

“Do you—” He looks at the ceiling for a moment, then back at me. “Your life is a lie.”

“My life isn’t a lie,” I say. “The life I told you I live is.”

He’s quiet, thoughtful.

“You really kill people,” he finally says. “For a living.”

“Yes.”

He nods. Once. Slowly. Like he’s filing it away.

“And you were going to kill me.”

“No.” I mean it with everything I have. “I was never going to kill you. The moment I saw you, I knew I couldn’t do it. I’m here because I couldn’t refuse the contract or they’d send someone else, and I needed to find out why you were targeted.” I cross my arms, then uncross them and shove my hands into my pockets.

“We don’t kill innocent people, Vaughn. The organization has standards, if you can call them that. The targets are people who have done serious harm and can’t be reached any other way. If you are on a list, there has to be a reason, but I couldn’t find one. I couldn’t find a single thing that justified it. So I came here to figure out what was wrong with the briefing and to protect you until I did.”

“You had to come here to protect me,” he says.

“Yes.”

“This”—he gestures between us— “was that all an act? Was any of it real?”

“No, and yes,” I insist. “Of course none of it was an act. That was all real. Every single moment of it was real. You have to believe that.”

“How?” he asks, and his voice has something in it now, something rawer than anger. “How can I believe in anything? You’ve been in my house for three weeks. You’ve been in my bed. You’ve been— You’re Rowan’s best friend. I thought I knew you. I thought you were a project manager who traveled too much and was lonely and didn’t know how to let people in. And now you’re telling me you’re a—” He shoves his hand through his hair. “How do I believe anything you’ve ever said to me?”

I don’t have an answer that’s good enough. I know I don’t. There isn’t one. There’s only the truth, which I should have given him weeks ago, and the fact that it’s too late to give it at the right time.

“Everything I felt,” I say. “Everything that happened between us. That was—is—the most real thing in my life. These past few weeks have showed me the kind of life I want.”

“Silas,” he says, and my name in his mouth sounds different.

Then the door opens and a man comes through. He’s wearing surgical scrubs and looks at Vaughn, then me, then back at Vaughn.

“Mr. Reeves?” he asks.

“Yes,” he says. “How’s my son?”

The man wears the expression that precedes good news, and despite everything, the ache in my chest loosens slightly. He introduces himself as a general surgeon, then says, “The surgery went well. The bullet caused significant damage to the tissue in the left shoulder, and we had to work to repair the subclavian artery, which was the primary concern. But we were able to do that successfully. Rowan is in the recovery room. He’s stable.”

Vaughn makes the sound of a man whose body has been holding on to hope but preparing himself for the worst. “He’s going to make it?” he asks.

“I’m confident,” the surgeon says. “Barring complications, which I don’t anticipate, I’d expect him to be out of hospital in three to five days. He’ll need to take it easy for several weeks after that, but he should make a full recovery.”

“Can I see him?” Vaughn asks.

“He’s still under anesthesia,” the surgeon says. “But yes, you can sit with him. I’ll have someone from our team take you back.”