Chapter 72

72

Eva

I used to tell myself that I liked to be misunderstood. That I didn't mind it. That I was special. But then I met him. And he understood me instantly, like he recognized me on the train. His twin flame, his soul mate, all those cheesy, scary things.

I love him like he's a part of me. The best part. The worst part. And loving him makes me love myself more wholly than I ever have, more than I ever thought I could.

I find him sitting on a drop-clothed chair in an unstable room at the top of the house.

"Hey," I say. "Is everything okay?"

He shudders. "It's fine."

"We were having sex," I remind him, "and you freaked out."

He looks pale now, sick like he did on the train that first night. "What if we went back?"

"Back to where?"

"To the network. To the job. Pledged our allegiance in some way. I'm good at my job. So are you. We could do it together. It would be different."

I shake my head. "I thought I was killing bad guys. Now that I know what I'm really doing…"

"We could do independent research, only take the villain hits," he says, repeating Sherri's intention. Fuck. He's serious.

I walk across the faulty floor. He withdraws. "What happened? What scared you?"

He swallows. "I can't do this. I can't be like everyone else." He laughs, but it's a mean sound. "What am I going to do for a job? I'm almost out of money. Where are we going to live?"

I can't believe he's doing this. It's so predictable, but I still didn't expect it. I sigh in frustration. "We can live anywhere. We can do anything."

"No, we can't. We're killers, both of us. You were wrong about the reason we do this. We're not killing ourselves. We're already dead. We kill because we can't do anything else."

"That's not true. I was a pretty good real estate agent," I say lightly, but he doesn't laugh.

He is working his fingers over his palms. His chest is pumping. He is on the verge of a panic attack.

He's wrong. He's dead wrong. Neither of us is dead inside. Life would be so much easier if we were.

"I don't want to live in some shack in the woods with babies," he says.

"Um, neither do I," I say, and then I get it. The reason for the panic. The reason for the freak-out. "You know, we don't have to have kids."

He starts, like he can't believe I've figured him out.

I climb onto his lap while he's thrown off, before he can run. I draw my fingers through his hair, down his cheek. "We can design the exact life we want, just like we designed our hits. We can do anything, just like we always have. We can have sex in luggage compartments, steal swords from antiques markets. We don't have to be saints; we just have to be free."

He gazes up at me. "I'm afraid of being free. All my life I've been in one prison or another."

"Then be my prisoner. And I'll be yours." I draw my finger along his jaw. "We don't have to solve everything tonight. We don't have to see the future. We just have to get through today. And honestly, with the day we have coming, that'll be enough." I shrug. "Who knows? Maybe you'll get lucky and we'll both die."

He lets his head drop onto my chest. "I'm sorry. I panicked."

"It's okay." I stroke his neck. "I don't know what I'm doing either. Nobody does. It's normal. We're normal. We just have to learn to live with it. Killing is a lot easier than living."

"What if I did want kids? What if I wanted everything that everyone else has?"

I lift his chin so I'm looking directly into his eyes. Speaking to him like I'm speaking to myself, my own soul. "Then you can have it. We can have it. Maybe we're not really that different from everyone else. Maybe that was just something we told ourselves because we were scared."