Chapter 67

67

Eva

Jonathan's so nervous that I don't think he realizes how nervous I am. I haven't been back to Andrew's place since he died. I sort of stuffed his entire existence into the past, with the rest of my baggage. It's awkward enough going to your ex's place with your current partner without having to factor in that your ex is dead and your new partner killed him.

I understand why Jonathan keeps apologizing, but as usual I'm trying to suppress my emotions, so it doesn't help that he keeps bringing it up. Because of course I don't blame Jonathan and of course I do. It's complicated. And it's getting more complicated all the time.

When we reach Andrew's apartment, Jonathan asks me if I want him to wait outside. He can sense that I'm upset and he's looking at me with care and worry.

"Of course not," I say, charging up the stairs. When I reach the familiar front door, I change my mind. "Maybe just wait here a sec?" I say, like I didn't just laugh off the suggestion one staircase ago.

Jonathan stands in the hall. I walk alone into my past.

Andrew's apartment is so familiar that it's a little crushing. The uneven shades he never fixed. The scorched teakettle his grandma gave him. The same ten books he never read on his shelf. The bed is made the way he always made it—with sloppy hospital corners.

Being there makes me think of Sherri. Of our life back then, when I first became a killer. I've lost her, too. Like I lost Andrew. Like I lost my parents. Sometimes my life feels like a series of closing doors. Of rooms I can't get into anymore.

This room is exactly how I remembered it. Exactly.

The mini fridge is still humming. The electricity still works—I would've thought someone would have turned it off. The books are gathering dust but the rest of the studio is fairly clean.

I approach the fridge, already grimacing. I'm expecting to find all of Andrew's old favorites: milk two years past its sell-by date, English mustard, rotten thick-cut bacon. When I open the fridge door I find all these things, only none of them are out-of-date.

"Fuck." I jump into readiness, almost expecting Andrew to leap out from behind the curtains.

Jonathan hears me and comes in. "Is everything all right? Do you still want me outside?"

I shake my head; then I say, quietly, "Close the door." He does. I keep my voice down. Andrew could come back at any second. Maybe we should leave. Maybe we should stay. Maybe a lot of things. "Are you sure you killed Andrew?"

"Yes."

"How did you kill him?"

He seems hesitant to say. "I shot him. Off the Ponte Vecchio. He fell into the Arno."

"Did you confirm the kill?" I ask.

"Not personally. His body turned up a few weeks later, around Empoli. You know rivers."

"I don't think so," I say. "I don't think he died that night. I don't think he's dead now." I reopen the fridge. "This milk goes bad in a week. That's English mustard. Andrew is still alive. And he's still living here."

Jonathan actually smiles. "Really? Because that would be a huge weight off of my mind."

"You're missing the most important part."

"I still got paid?"

"He got out. He defected and he's still alive."

Jonathan seems unsure. "Something's not adding up here. Why would the network let him go? And why would they pay me if he wasn't dead?"

We both hear the sound of the building door opening downstairs.

"Maybe we should leave," Jonathan says.

We stay frozen as we hear footsteps coming up the stairs, but then they become fainter. They're moving away.

My head is spinning. "Why would Andrew let me believe he was dead? Unless— Oh my God, what if he faked his death to break up with me?"

"If he did, I'll kill him. Again. More completely this time." Jonathan jokes, but I'm not in the mood.

Losing Andrew was so painful, and all that pain, all that feeling, was for nothing. It was fake. He let me suffer for no reason. "Men are such fucking assholes."

"As much as I understand that you must be pretty pissed off right now, I don't think this is about you. If it was Andrew's plan, it wouldn't have involved me."

It dawns on me. " I'm going to kill him."

"We should talk to him first," Jonathan says. "Then I'll let you decide."

We both startle. The footsteps that seemed to disappear down the hall are now right outside the door. We were being so loud that I didn't notice them coming back.

Two things happen at once: Someone puts a key into the lock and Jonathan draws on the door. And then the door opens and my current boyfriend is pointing a gun at my ex.

Andrew seems to recognize Jonathan immediately—I guess their last run-in would have been pretty memorable.

Andrew draws on Jonathan.

Then I draw on them both, which is kind of painful, considering my mortal wound is still pretty fresh.

Jonathan gives me a look. "You're pointing a gun at me?"

"Sorry," I say, but I don't lower my gun. I need Andrew to feel safe.

Andrew's eyes expand when he sees me. I almost wouldn't recognize him, which is probably what he was going for. He has facial hair, dyed dark. He's no longer chiseled. He's dressed in dodgy-looking tweeds. I actually think he looks hotter. Good for him.

"Eva?" he says. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"What the hell are you doing here? On earth."

Andrew's eyes go back to Jonathan and don't leave him. "You're here to kill me."

"Don't be ridiculous," I say, although I can very much see how he would arrive at that conclusion.

"How did you find me?" he asks.

"This is your apartment," I point out. "Let's focus on the important things. You let me believe you were dead. For years."

Andrew slides carefully along the wall, not taking his eyes off Jonathan. As if I couldn't kill him. This is exactly what was wrong with our relationship; he never believed in me. I almost want to kill him just to prove myself.

"I'm sorry," he says, apparently to Jonathan, because he still doesn't look at me. "I did it to protect you."

Jonathan speaks. "Why don't we all put our guns down and have a chat? Have a cup of tea or something. English shit."

"I'm not putting my gun down around you," Andrew says. "You shot me."

"He's not going to shoot you now," I say. "He already got paid."

Andrew finally looks at me again. "Then what are you doing here?"

"They want us dead, too," I say. "We came here because we're trying to find out who we were working for. We had no idea you were still alive. And apparently hiding in your own apartment."

"Hiding in plain sight," Jonathan says. "It's a strategy many people don't appreciate."

"Exactly," Andrew says. "I was in the Pantanal for a year. But you'd be surprised how conspicuous you can become in the middle of nowhere."

I look from Andrew to Jonathan, taking the temperature of the room. "How are we feeling about putting the guns down? You can give them to me."

They both laugh. Rude.

Andrew considers. "I suppose you wouldn't kill me here," he says to Jonathan. "You like to make a spectacle."

"I wouldn't call it a spectacle," Jonathan says.

Andrew lowers his gun. I give Jonathan a look and he does the same. I lower my guns, too.

Andrew carefully closes the front door. Then, somewhat haltingly, he makes us tea. "So, what are you two doing together?"

"Well, it's…," I start. "It's kind of a funny story."

"She's my girlfriend," Jonathan says, protectively taking my hand. I roll my eyes, but also, I kind of like it.

"Fucking hell. I really did a number on you, didn't I?" Andrew asks. "Do you still take your tea the same way?"

"Yeah. Three sugars." There are many ways to die.

I take a seat at the kitchen table, my seat. Jonathan takes Andrew's seat, which makes me smile.

"How do you take your tea, mate?" Andrew asks Jonathan.

"Black."

"Could've guessed that," Andrew says.

"You know, you could have told me you were still alive," I tell Andrew.

"It was too risky," Andrew says, filling the kettle.

"You mean you didn't trust me," I say.

He sighs. He glances at Jonathan, then continues. "Things had gotten a bit weird between us. And then the network took out a hit on me. And then I was shot. Off a bridge."

"How did you survive?" Jonathan says. He seems a bit annoyed with himself. "I'm sure I shot you in the heart."

Andrew is pouring out the milk and sugar now. He has this very strong belief that you should pour the milk first. He will fight people on it. "I was wearing a bulletproof vest," he says.

Jonathan scoffs.

"You contract killers are so ridiculous about not doing anything for your own protection," Andrew snips.

"Laura is dead," I have to tell him. I use her real name because he must know it. They went to school together. He doesn't seem surprised, so I guess that's another secret he kept from me. "They killed her because she warned me."

He looks conflicted. "Lucky you." He runs his fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry to hear that she's dead, but she never did me that courtesy."

I can't blame him for being conflicted. I am, too. Everyone I know is so bad and so good. Including me. "So you knew she was lying about the agency?" I have to ask. "And you didn't even tell me?"

"I wanted to protect you," he says. "I started to get suspicious about things. After Laura hired you, to be honest. You were running so many mad jobs. It didn't seem plausible that a government agency would be so reckless. I started asking questions, and instead of answering me, Laura tried to make me feel like the bad guy…You did, too. A little."

I remember his questions. I remember feeling like he was jealous. Feeling like I had finally found the solution to my malaise and he was trying to take my new life away. To drag me back to a world where I'd never fit in.

"It was actually one of my marks who finally told me the truth," he says. "Or accused me of it. He said I'd been hired through some dodgy website. I failed to kill him, and then I called Laura and demanded answers. She said if I kept digging, they would have me killed.

"So I went straight to the police," he continues. "I didn't even think about it. There's no way, I thought, that these people could be more powerful than the Italian police."

"What did you tell the police?"

"Oh, you know, that I worked for a top secret internet hit-man request site, but I didn't have any idea how to access it. I couldn't even give them Laura's details, because I wanted to protect her. And you." That doesn't sound like leaking privileged information, but I guess it makes sense that going to the police would be reason enough for the network to eliminate him.

"What did the police say?" I ask.

"Not a lot. It was more of an awkward-silence thing. Especially when I asked them to arrest me because I was afraid to leave. They politely declined. Even I started to think I was a bit mad. Until I ran into an officer on the way out and he busted my face open."

I remember the bruising. "You should've told me." It makes sense now, how adamant he was that I quit. I would have if he had just told me the truth.

At least, I think I would have. I was so different back then, so high on the idea that I was destined to be an assassin. I felt like I had a purpose. I felt like all my suffering had been for a reason. I might've not believed him. I might've made excuses. I might've not wanted to walk away.

"I was afraid that if I told you the truth, it would put your life in danger." It would have. I know that now. "Anyway, after this fella shot me off that bridge, I went into hiding for a bit. Then I had an idea. Bodies are found in the Arno all the time. All I had to do was bribe a few officials with the money I kept hidden, and I had a body in Empoli. I made sure it was cremated, but in any case I didn't see the overlords sending someone to check.

"I flew to Brazil, spent a year exploring the Pantanal—nearly died there a few times, mainly from frogs—but I missed Florence. I came back, just on a lark, thinking I'd stay a few days, and before I knew it, I had the exact life I'd always wanted." He pours the tea and distributes it.

"They will find you eventually," Jonathan muses.

"Yes," Andrew says, taking the open seat. "I expect they will, mate."

I grip my too-hot tea. "Were you ever going to tell me you were alive?" I ask him.

Andrew just makes a face, like he doesn't want to admit the truth. Then he drinks his tea too quickly and scalds his tongue. Small victories.

Jonathan sits back, lost in thought. "I don't want to keep running…and I don't want to keep killing." Both Andrew and I look up in surprise. Jonathan squeezes my hand. "I just want us to be together."

I think on it. "What if it wasn't killing other people? What if we killed ourselves?"