Page 97 of The Hitman’s Final Job

“Dad. What’s complicated about it?”

I think about the waiting room last night. About Silas standing in the middle of it, telling me things I still don’t know what to do with.

I was hired to kill you.

Everything that happened between us was real.

I think about all of it sitting in my chest, unprocessed, waiting for the space I haven’t had yet.

“There are things Silas needs to tell you,” I say. “Things about himself. About who he is. Things I found out last night that I’m still— It’s not my story to tell. It’s his.”

Rowan’s face is a mixture of confusion and worry.

“But it’s why things are complicated,” I say.

“Is he okay?” Rowan asks. “Is he safe?”

“Physically,” I say. “Yes, I guess.”

“Okay.”

“When he comes to see you, I’d like to not be here.”

Rowan squeezes my hand, as if to encourage me to explain.

“Not because I’m angry at him. I just need some time before I can be in the same room as him, and I don’t want to make it harder for you.”

Rowan says nothing for a moment.

“I’m getting sleepy again. I don’t like it. Can you ask the surgeon if I can have coffee?”

I chuckle, then hold his hand until he falls asleep again. The machines beep steadily, reminding me my son is still alive, breathing, and possibly about to turn into a coffee-deprived diva.

THIRTY

SILAS

The clock on the dashboard of Vaughn’s car ticks toward ten.

After I left my statement with Dale this morning, I went back to Vaughn’s house to pack my suitcase.

The house was too quiet without him. I moved through it quickly, not letting myself look at things too long. The wooden bear is no longer on the windowsill. Both it and the candle are wrapped between my clothes.

Dale said I shouldn’t leave the state until the investigation is over—or at least until the FBI declares I’m of no interest to them. I can’t stay at Vaughn’s, so I booked a room at the Cozy Corner B and B, which is on the edge of town but on the other side from Vaughn’s farm.

Then I dropped by the Sunrise Bakery to get a selection of Rowan’s favorite pastries and ended up leaving with a considerable amount that Maria refused to let me pay for. I’m not even sure Rowan will be allowed to eat them—or at least not this many.

My suitcase is in the trunk, and now I’m sitting in the parking lot, watching the clock.

9:58.

9:59.

My phone rings at exactly ten.

I answer and wait. The sound of a conference call is distinctive.

“I want it noted,” Zuza says, “that I was awake and ready for this call despite the time zone, and I am not impressed.”