Chapter 17

17

The kill is set for twelve twenty-three at a nightclub in Pigalle. We choose odd times to make the death feel organic. If you killed someone at the stroke of midnight, the police might start searching for Cinderella.

We also choose edgy locations. If someone is stabbed in a nightclub or shot at a drug den, people tend to assume they were up to no good—not that the police ever seem to look too deeply into any of my murders.

I wonder sometimes if they're in on the hits, or paid off. But even if they are, the police need you to make it easy for them to look the other way. If you kill a man while he's at home with his family, or in a church, or at an ice-cream shop, people might ask questions.

When I arrive at the location, I realize it's a nightclub that's too shy to say what it really is: a sex club.

Chandeliers and naked women hang from the ceiling. The wallpaper is animal fur. There's this pressure to be horny that I find so cringey. Everyone in here deserves to die. Except the women hanging from the ceiling; I'll cut them some slack.

All my reconnaissance for this job was done by Sherri. For tough jobs, I do most of the work myself. You have to really trust someone to let them do recon for you, because if they don't do it right, there can be lethal surprises. A gun safe you didn't know about. A panic button you didn't see. A camera you didn't switch off.

Sherri has done excellent work here. She found a back entrance. She will take down the Wi-Fi that the security system runs on for exactly seven minutes—hopefully short enough to go unnoticed.

She left photographs of the mark in my hotel room. I studied them while I waved my hair. Sherri even included a shot of his dick. The agency is nothing if not thorough.

I find him immediately. He's in one of those too-tight, too-short suits "fashionable" men sometimes wear, displaying his silk socks, his Cartier watch. He's laughing. Good for him. This might be the best night of his life, for the next seven minutes.

He's at a VIP table surrounded by his sleazy-looking friends. I also spot his brother, slinging shots of J?germeister. It's probably a good thing he's getting drunk. He's the fall guy, and just as evil as my mark. This might be his last night out for a while.

I prepare for my approach. I need to charm my mark while remaining forgettable to everyone else. To do that, I need to separate him from his wolf pack. I need to do it fast, before anyone else really notices me or talks to me.

Luckily, I'm pretty well versed in what sleazy men want.

As I start toward the table, Jonathan crosses my mind. He's the last thing I want to think about now. His rejection still stings. It makes me doubt myself. I feel my steps start to slow. I catch my reflection in the mirror and I think: You're not pretty enough to murder this man.

I stop in my tracks.

This is what I hate most about men, the power they have over us. Totally undeserved. Completely unearned.

A stranger ghosted me and now it's interfering with my work .

Fuck Jonathan. I'm not going to let him do this to me, with his antique weapons and his bent glasses and his motion sickness. I don't need him. What I need is to kill this man, go back to the hotel, take a nice long bath and binge-watch Bravo.

I cross quickly around the table. I keep my head down so no one sees me until I want to be seen.

I approach his ear. I gird my loins. I lean forward and I say, in French, "I bet I can make you come in nineteen seconds." I can't, but he'll be dead before he finds out.

He smiles in surprise. "Are you a hooker?" That's a compliment where he comes from.

"This one's on the house." He starts to look around. I stop him with my hand, force his cheeks in my direction.

He doesn't seem to mind. "What's in it for you?"

"I'm just a bored little housewife. My husband keeps me locked in a tower, and every night he lets me out. I have to make five men come before he'll let me back in the house."

"Jesus Christ."

"You're number three."

He licks his lips. "Can I watch the others?"

"Of course." I slip my fingers down his sweaty neck, along his shoulder and down his arm until I lace them in his clammy hand. "But we have to hurry."

It's enough. He follows me. I never should have worried. Men are incredibly easy to manipulate. Most men.

I take him to the "office"—code for the place where the manager does coke. I lock the door.

He leers at me. "When does the clock start?"

I smile back. I'm used to smiling when men leer. I lead him to a black office chair. It squeaks as I sit him down in front of me.

He gazes up at me with an expression between awe and orgasm. It's kind of sweet.

"Do you want to count?" I ask. "Or do you want me to?"

I straddle him on the chair. I chose a dress with a high cut to make this easier. The knife I was given for the job is attached to my thigh. I'd rather shoot him, but this knife belongs to his brother. It's a cheesy replica that Sherri sharpened to a deadly point.

The mark's sweaty hands run over me. His belly pushes against me. He tilts his face up at me and I kiss him. I guess I'm curious. I want to know what he tastes like right before he dies. But he tastes like they all do: like cheap champagne, fuzzy teeth and sweat.

He kisses me back and I slit his throat.

I kiss him until he loses consciousness. One thing I've learned on this job is that everyone dies differently. Some people die fast and some people die slowly. I used to think the story of Rasputin's death was ridiculous, but now I know it's totally possible that one could poison, shoot and drown someone before they actually died. Some people are just really hard to kill.

I've learned to be careful. One of the worst things that can happen on this job is for a mark to realize you're trying to kill them. They tend to get really, really pissed.

I keep him distracted with the kiss as he gasps and sputters. As the seconds slowly pass. He's in shock. Most people go into shock right before they die. They do the strangest things. This guy keeps kissing me. You wouldn't think that he would, but my lips are so insistent, and the idea that I would stab him is so ludicrous, and his life is spilling out of him.

Then he jerks back. His eyes fly open. I can see it dawning on him, the realization. I don't really know of what. That he's dying? That I killed him? Or something deeper. Something more. Maybe he's seeing angels. Maybe he's seeing Heaven. I mean, probably he's seeing Hell. He is a bad guy after all.

He stiffens, stunned by this mysterious realization, and then he goes limp. I shepherd him to the ground.

I leave the knife behind, saturated in his brother's DNA. I text his brother from his phone: We need to talk. Meet me in the back office.

He'll be the one to find the body. Maybe he'll even touch things.

I wipe the blood from my skin. I tuck the wipes in my purse and leave the club.

I walk back to my hotel, through the city in the dark. It's safer than calling a car. I stick to alleyways and courtyards, all the quiet places Sherri mapped out in advance.

Paris is perfection after dark. The smoky lights. The gray tint. It's so romantic.

Now that my job is done, I let myself think about Jonathan. It's stupid, I know. But I liked him. I liked his big body and his small glasses and the way he looked at me like I was something I always wanted to be: okay.

I remember what he said to me: You're perfect. You don't have to do anything.

Look, I know it was bullshit. He just wanted to sleep with me. But nobody had ever said those words to me. No one had ever lied to me like that.

It's my job to be forgettable, to be invisible, to disappear.

It was just nice to be seen.

When I've gotten back to the hotel that night, after I take a shower and crawl into bed and shut my eyes, I see him looking at me.

With his blue-velvet eyes. His rustling hands. Like I'm someone to run toward and not away from.