Chapter 1

You know why you’re doing this.

It’s not about the girl.

There is no girl.

There is only a target.

I repeat the mantra in my mind as I get out of the shower, my body freshly scrubbed and my skin tingling with the exfoliating scrub I always use in preparation for a situation like this.

It doesn’t totally eliminate shedding skin cells, but I don’t get paid to take chances, so I take all the precautions I can.

Looking in the mirror of the cheap motel room I’m currently renting, I get dressed on auto-pilot.

Remember... in, out, and don’t think. Just do.

First is a cotton T-shirt, black, Hanes. You can get these at any discount store, and that’s why I wear them. I don’t need some hotshot CSI finding a scrap of cloth and somehow tracking me down based on my clothing purchasing habits.

On top of my undershirt is my long-sleeved blue hoodie pullover. It’s fashionable enough that I won’t stick out here in Roseboro, with its working-class population, while at the same time, it’s dark enough that I will blend into the shadows.

It’s just like they taught you in the Boy Scouts. Be prepared.

Black jeans, a basic pair of bootcut Wranglers, and underneath, a pair of common, run-of-the-mill black leather workboots.

Everything I’m wearing is commonly available at ten thousand stores around the country, and nothing is over fifty dollars. Considering I’m burning all of this after tonight, there’s a good reason why.

On the bed are my main tools for tonight. First, a pocket knife. I’ve used this Leatherman for a very long time, the multiple tools and attachments being more useful than a lot of people would recognize.

Next, my lock picks. I’m prepared to break a window to get in if I have to, but I’d prefer not to.

The fewer details I leave behind, the greater the chance that I’ll be sipping beer and watching the game before the Roseboro police even know something’s wrong.

Finally, tonight’s weapon of choice, a snub-nosed .38 Special revolver fitted with a silencer. Not the highest power of pistols, but accurate, and no shells will be left behind for forensics.

I finish up, tucking my ski mask into my pocket, knowing I might need it later, and put black leather gloves on before walking out to the plain-Jane Ford truck that I’m using for this job.

Time to go to work.

The house isn’t exactly in the best part of town. It’s maybe one of the oldest in Roseboro.

Once upon a time, it was probably considered rural, but as Roseboro expanded, the plot of land with a short row of near-matching houses is now on the edge of the industrial district. The cheap galvanized chain-link fence that surrounds the tiny two-bedroom ‘mill’ house is a product of a bygone era, back when the biggest employer in this city was Cascade Cider House.

But the national expansion of the big beer chains closed Cascade Cider by the seventies, and now the only things left are a few of these tiny breadbox-style places that used to be filled with people who smelled of fermenting apples nine months out of the year and fresh apples the other three.

It’s a miracle any of these places still survive, but this house is one of the few, and while it’s old, and nowhere near what anyone would call a dream home... it’s been loved and cared for.

I see it in the way the trim is painted, not always in the same shade of blue, but carefully done anyway.

Or in the way the little brick flower garden underneath the tiny living room window is still bordered in tightly-fitted bricks, although the flowers are now replaced with hardy herbs that don’t take nearly as much care as petunias.

I park across the street underneath an old, twisted scrub pine that’s shed a thick blanket of needles all over the uncurbed grass that lines the backstreet. It’s the sort of neighborhood where your parking space is the chunk of dying grass next to your mailbox.

I sit in the shadows of my truck, waiting and watching. The first step is to make sure my target’s there, that she’s alone, and that I’ll be uninterrupted.

I know her schedule. She got out of her last class twenty minutes ago. She should be home soon to drop off her books before heading in for a late-night shift at The Gravy Train, where she’ll work until the last of the late-night barflies get their greasy plates eaten.

Then she’ll come home, crack the books until her head drops onto them, and do the whole thing again tomorrow morning.

Whether now or after her job, it ends tonight.

I see her pull up on her scooter, a little 50cc thing that a lot of people around here call a ‘DUI bike’ since you don’t need to insure them.

She has a car, a beat-up twenty-year-old Honda that she inherited from her aunt when she passed away, but insurance and gas mean the scooter’s her vehicle of choice more often than not.

I’m tempted to just take the shot here. It’ll be easier and faster, although riskier and less controlled.

But I do have a few rules to my work, an honor code, even though what I do is less than honorable by anyone’s standards, including my own.

First, be patient, hence my learning her routine and doing my research. I’m good, not because I’m the fastest, or the nastiest, or the strongest. I’m good because I take my time and do it right.

Second, absolutely no bystanders. I won’t take a shot on anyone if there are innocent people who could get hurt if something goes wrong.

The last thing my conscience needs is me accidentally shooting some eight-year-old kid because I didn’t see them or a bullet bounces off a lamp post.

Third, don’t get too close. But I don’t want to think about the third. Because I’m pretty sure I’m breaking the hell out of it with this job.

As I watch her shake out her long brown hair, nearly black in the deepening dusk, I grip my steering wheel a little tighter.

I know she doesn’t try to be, but Isabella Turner is uniquely striking in her beauty.

Her hair falls simply, nearly halfway down her back, waving in the air like a dark curtain that frames her lean face.

Her eyes are large, almond-shaped and framed with thick lashes, like she’s a princess hiding in this working-class setting, just waiting for her chance to be restored back to the throne that’s waiting for her.

Of course, I’m being foolish, maybe a little whimsical. But I do this with every target.

Usually, I’m trying to make them go the other way. Paint them with a brush that pushes them fully into the ‘evil’ category.

So, the drug dealer isn’t just a guy selling drugs but someone who’s stealing kids off the streets, carelessly taking their potential future by hooking them on his poison smack to fund his criminal empire.

The stock broker isn’t just a shady trader but someone who’s laundering billions of dollars of crime money while robbing poor, innocent grandmothers of their retirement savings.

It helps me sleep at night, and quite honestly, isn’t that hard to do. Not with the contracts I’ve accepted.

I’ve killed a lot of bad people. Hunted them down, snuffed out their miserable existence, and not felt much remorse about it.

Occasionally, I even feel like I’m doing something darkly noble, protecting those who can’t do what I do from the evil in every corner of the world.

But no matter how hard I try or how much I look into her past, I can’t make Isabella Turner ‘bad’ in my eyes.

But if I don’t do this, I’ll never get the answers I need. Blackwell hired me for this job, making it very clear that this is a tit-for-tat-only negotiation. I do this, and he gives me what I want . . . a chance for justice.

Considering carefully if this is the moment, I scan the street, looking for potential witnesses. As my hand reaches for the door handle, I freeze, seeing a man approaching the house from down the street.

His hair’s long and greasy, the two-day-old growth of beard on his gaunt cheeks making him look even scuzzier than the ripped long-sleeved Nirvana T-shirt he’s wearing.

“Hey, Izzy!” he yells, and I shrink deeper into the seat, willing myself to be invisible, my eyes narrowing as I rest my hand on my pistol. Something about this puts me on edge. “Izzy Turner!”

The look on her face tells me everything that Miss Turner feels about the man calling her name, and mentally, I quickly go through my research on this mission to place a name to a face... Russell Carraby. Thirty-five, single, currently listed as ‘self-employed’ according to his most recent tax records. And Izzy’s landlord of sorts. He doesn’t own her house, but Russell inherited the land Izzy’s house sits on.

Seems the Carraby family got along quite nicely with the Cascade Cider people and that’s how these houses came to be built out here. Back then, it was probably a sweet deal all the way around. But now, people who own their house, like Miss Turner, still have to pay a small fortune to sharks like Carraby because of where their home sits.

Meanwhile, Carraby gets paid doing jack squat.

But the financial data I’d run on Isabella Turner had seemed dry and unimportant, just a list of bills she paid off each month like clockwork. This moment with Carraby feels decidedly more threatening than a monthly invoice.

“What do you want, Russ?” Isabella asks, her shoulders slumping as Russell gets closer. “I already paid you for the month.”

“No, you paid me catch-up money,” Russell says, his ferret-like eyes clearly undressing Isabella even as he smacks the large wad of gum in his mouth. “Not all of it either. Late fees can be such a bitch.” He shakes his head like he’s sad, but even from across the street, I can see the joy he’s taking in this moment. “Long story short, you’re still behind.”

Isabella isn’t ready to back down, though. “You need to check your books. I paid you extra last time.”

“Nope... you still owe,” Russell says, smirking. “I got it all in my computer back at my place. If you’d like to come see?”

“There’s no way in hell I’ll ever go inside your house, Russell,” Isabella growls, her anger flaring. “And trust me, I keep my own records too. Of every single red cent I give you. So you can stop looking at me like that. I’m not going to whore myself out over a damned land lease I’ve already paid.”

“Just being neighborly. If you can’t pay in cash, I’d be open to letting you pay another way,” Russell threatens with a shrug and a smile, like he’d be doing her a favor. “Hell, it might even be fun. And I know you haven’t had a man in a long time.”

Even as that intel does dangerous things to my cock, my hand tightens on my pistol. I’m about ready to shoot Russell on principle when Isabella pokes a hard finger into the front of his dirty shirt, denting the doughy skin of his chest. She takes several steps forward, and like the coward he is, Carraby backs up under the weight of her fury.

“The next time you mention something like that is the time I call the cops on your ass,” Isabella yells.

The threat, combined with her pushing against him, causes Russell to take another half-step back.

“I’m gonna give you one week, and if I don’t have my fuckin’ money by then, I’m going to take you to court,” he says. “Don’t fuck with me, Izzy. I know the sheriff. You might just have more problems than looking for another place to live.”

But he’s adding to the space between them, already walking away without giving her his back. Coward. Smart man, considering the balls on this girl, but still a gutless way to try to intimidate her.

“I bet you do know the sheriff . . .”

She pauses dramatically. “Since he’s arrested you twice before,” Isabella calls after him. “As for court, you bring your records and I’ll bring mine.”

She’s taking aim at his every threat, but I can see it in the way her shoulders slump a half-inch that the fire’s dimming. Still, she fakes it pretty well until Russell’s disappeared around the corner, and she goes inside her fence.

This is the time I should be moving, taking advantage of her shaken state, but I can’t do anything but watch as she fumbles, trying to get the keys to her house into the lock before giving up.

She drops her bag to the concrete stoop and collapses into the small, cheap plastic chair, discount lawn furniture at its finest, next to the door, burying her face in her hands.

She doesn’t sob or cry loudly. Instead, she just sits there, her shoulders shaking quietly, her body looking like she’s exhausted. She’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders and she’s tired out from doing it. I can almost see the scrabbling grip she has on the end of her rope, but still, she fights to hang on.

I watch, my soul touched. I want to go to her, to take her into my arms and tell her that the world isn’t so hard and cruel, even if it’s a lie. I want to...

Do your fucking job!

I clear my throat, blinking slowly as I pick up my ski mask, slipping the breathable Lycra over my head and then down my face, leaving just my eyes peeking out.

I pull up my hoodie, but I’m frozen, unable to move as she finishes her moment of weakness.

Then, in a show of resilience that makes my mouth dry, she stands up, wipes her face, and glances at her watch before opening up her front door enough to drop her book bag off and leaves immediately.

You need to finish this.

No.

I rip the mask off, stuffing it in the console. I need to find out more. I can’t risk violating my most cardinal rule, that I don’t kill the innocent. This is something that I could never come back from if I’m wrong.

Ever since I was given the contract to end Isabella Turner’s life, I’ve broken myself trying to find something she’s done wrong. She’s not perfect, but she’s done nothing deserving of death.

And Blackwell’s reason for hiring me doesn’t carry enough water with me. I know everyone is a pawn in someone else’s game, but I refuse to the be the Grim Reaper for a soul that doesn’t deserve it in some way.

My gut is telling me there’s something more here, a puzzle piece I don’t have yet. And I won’t make a move until I have the full picture.

Isabella gets on her scooter, tucking her hair into her helmet again before taking off. I let her get a good block away before following. The streets in this neighborhood aren’t busy and I already know where she’s going.

The Gravy Train is that rarity to find anymore, an honest to goodness old-fashioned diner. The long silver bullet-shaped building resembles an old train car, and the inside decoration is a color I swear only comes when you take white paint and expose it to ten years’ worth of fried onions, splattering greasy meat patties, burps, belches, and other bodily emissions.

I park in the lot, watching through the huge windows as Isabella goes inside and talks with another worker, who nods and clears away a spot at the counter for her. She brings her what looks like a grilled cheese while Isabella consumes it in four large bites before heading to the back, and I make my move.

So far, I’ve never gotten close enough to actually let her notice me, but something about her is calling to me, promising answers.

I push my hoodie down, not wanting to look suspicious, and my hair springs free, sticking up every which way, but I don’t give a shit. I lock my pistol in the truck and head inside.

Taking an open booth, I pull out my cellphone, pretending to be obsessed with the screen while I surreptitiously watch for Isabella.

“Hey, honey, you orderin’?” a waitress asks, all sass and big hair and saucy attitude. She looks like she’s about to tell me I need to order or move along, but one look at my face tempers that.

I’m used to women softening at my looks. I’m not arrogant, but I know that I’m easy on the eyes, and I’ve used it to my advantage more than once.

“Just a coffee for now,” I order. “Decaf, if you have some ready.”

“Honey, of course we’ve got decaf,” the waitress says, turning around.

She gets me my cup before Isabella comes out, the two obviously swapping out as one goes off shift and the other comes on.

I nurse the coffee for a good half hour, watching Isabella at work. She’s exhausted, almost sleepwalking through her shift, and while she keeps a smile on her face, it looks nearly painted on.

Still, as she keeps working, I find myself drawn to her more and more. It’s not just physical attraction. I felt that the first moment I saw her picture in the office of the man who hired me to kill her. No, this is more than that.

How could he? How could he hire me to kill a pretty woman who mostly seems to be desperately struggling despite working her fingers to the bone?

She can’t have any bearing on a man like that’s life, they’re literally worlds apart. There must be something I’m missing. There must be something he’s not telling me. Surely, even he’s not this cruel, this reckless.

“Hey, Izzy!” the cook in the back yells, banging on the little chrome bell next to the pickup window. “Come on, you got plates waitin’!”

“Yeah, sorry, Henry,” Isabella says, grabbing them.

She hands them out to the three guys waiting at the old-fashioned sit-down counter before going over to the register, where another waitress, an older woman in her fifties who looks like she’s done this her whole life, is tallying up a bill. I’m close enough that I can hear them.

“Hey, Elaine, I’m gonna grab another coffee. You mind?”

“I don’t say nothin’ about drinking the mud,” Elaine says. “Don’t let Henry get on ya, honey. Just his ulcer acting up again.”

“No... no, I’ve been shit so far,” Isabella says, yawning. “I can’t keep going on three hours of sleep a night. But I don’t know what else to do.”

“You keep busting your ass, you’re gonna end up like me, fallen arches and all,” Elaine says encouragingly. “Seriously, what could have you scraping for every dime like you are?”

“Russ came by my place again,” Isabella says quietly, recounting the confrontation at her house briefly. “I’ve got enough to pay the bastard but—”

“But then you won’t have enough to live on. Don’t say anything else,” Elaine says. “Next week, you come in, you order what they allow us, and if it magically turns into a full chicken-fried steak and gravy dinner, well shit, I guess I just need to get my eyes looked at.”

I see Elaine give a huge wink, like it’s a brilliant conspiracy, and Isabella smiles. “If you do your studying here, you can have my shift meal too. That’d get you two per day at least. Make one of them the Country Plate Special and you can take the toast and little peanut butter packets and get a sandwich later too.”

It’s a kind gesture from the world-worn waitress, and with how quickly she throws that idea out there, I can tell she’s been through some rough times too. Isabella nods quietly, touched, but I can tell her pride is stinging that she needs to take such charity. “You know if it was just any old house, I’d say fuck it, move into an apartment or something, but—”

“I know, honey,” Elaine says. “I know.”

Isabella clears her throat and finishes off her coffee. As she comes around the counter, I clear my throat and she looks over.

Our eyes meet... and inside me, I feel more conflicted than ever.

Because in the first meeting of our eyes, I feel what I’ve thought doesn’t exist.

The Spark.