Page 9 of Trigger Happy

I rev my chainsaw.

Nothing like some body-chopping to work up an appetite.

5Sabrina

Bonnie!” I call out, my voice echoing. “I’m home!”

Well, not home, but it sounds better than I’m back in the studio I rented on the Upper East Side for September!

I dead bolt the door behind me and pause out of habit, listening for anything off. All I hear is the humming from the fortress-sized wine fridge. Once I’m satisfied that there isn’t an angry Montoya lurking in my closet, I put the safety on my handgun and toe off my heels.

I can tell the cleaning person came because the Scandinavian furniture is perfectly fluffed, the bathroom bidet is reset, and even the exposed brick wall looks dusted. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal the sprawling city skyline, and I’m high enough that the honking horns don’t screech against my eardrums. It’s a beautiful studio, pristine and elegant, but the walls are bare of any photos, there are no shoes by the door, nothing to show I was even here.

“Good.” I force a nod.

With a sigh, I drop my calfskin duffel bag on the hardwood and head straight for the stainless-steel fridge. I don’t even bother unpacking since I’ll probably be on another plane in less than a week. I peek inside the fridge. There’s nothing but expired pickles and four meal-prepped containers overgrown with mold.

“Oh well. I tried.”

After grabbing the pickles, I shut the fridge with my hip and sink on the leather couch. “Bonnie, you’re not going to believe who showed up in Malibu,” I say, plucking one from the jar.

“Lawton Montoya. The imbecile looked good, too, but I’d rather give up dry cleaning than admit that. I mean, he disposes of bodies by feeding them to livestock. So gross. He has no finesse, but it’s like he thinks he’s better than me because he gets his hands dirty. I can get my hands dirty, too, I just have to take off my press-ons first. Okay. I’m done ranting.”

Bonnie stares back at me, belly-up at the top of the tiny fish tank.

I tap the glass. “Bonnie?”

She’s floating, unmoving. My shoulders slump. This was Bonnie the Seventh. I really need to stop buying fish just to have someone to come home to. “I’m sorry, Bonnie, rest in peace with Clyde, my sweet little soul.”

I’m preparing a makeshift funeral involving a plastic baggie and a toilet when my phone vibrates. Restricted. I drop the baggie, hurrying to swipe right. “Hi, Mom. You there?”

Her toasty, chipper voice crackles through. “Hi, darling! Can you hear me?”

My heart catapults. “Yes, finally. Why haven’t you answered? I’ve called you like ten times this week.”

“I know, sweetie, I’m so sorry. The cell reception’s such a mess down here.”

“It’s fine. I’m just glad I get to hear your voice for once.” I grab Dad’s Coffee Makes Me Less Murdery mug from the cabinet, the one I bring with me everywhere. “What have you been up to?”

“We went couples snorkeling with one of the Hell’s Angels chapter presidents. Apparently, the Yucatán Peninsula’s a popular spot for runaways, and here we thought we were being unique.”

“And your mother dropped her wedding ring in the Caribbean.” Dad’s deep voice pops onto the line. “So someone had to dive fifty feet without an oxygen tank to get it.”

“And someone needs to stop complaining,” Mom interjects. “You stole that ring from a Moroccan heiress. I wasn’t about to let it go. It’s from the Gilded Age!”

Mom and Dad used to be two of the best freelancers back in the nineties. They started out conning criminals, but the jobs eventually got deadlier, and the higher stakes meant more money but less freedom. Sure, we could go anywhere in the world we wanted, except we could never stay there for more than a couple of months.

All it took was me getting kidnapped for ransom when I was six, and we never slept in the same place twice. The drug lord who took me gave me a ton of Swedish Fish, so I didn’t mind the whole experience, but after that, I became great at packing my duffel. Dad even got me a vacuum sealer.

“Did you use the lye in the hot tub like I told you?” Dad says. “I call it the cauldron killer.”

“I had a…” I twirl a strand of hair. “… complication, but we don’t have to waste time talking about it.”

“Yes we do,” Dad says in his overprotective voice, the same one he uses to threaten human traffickers. “What happened?”

“Are you okay?” Mom adds, sounding worried. “Do you need us to call Dr. Ravinsky? He isn’t doing much under the table anymore, but he owes me a favor.”

“No. Nothing like that… I ran into Lawton Montoya,” I say.