You too, hun. God bless you.
I pocket the phone and lace up.
Linda means well. She always has. But God hasn't done much for us lately that I can see. Ma prays every morning and every night and the pain is still there when she wakes up, still there when she tries to sleep. I don't know what kind of arrangement that's supposed to be. I'm not going to work it out on a Saturday morning, so I leave it alone and head for the door.
Harvee.
I turn the name over once and put it away. I wanted a name to satisfy something. I'm not sure it did.
My running route isn't fixed anymore. It depends on him.
Most mornings it's the commercial complex, a few loops through the courtyard, in and out like any other guy logging miles before the heat sets in. Other mornings it's his neighborhood. I learned the gate code two weeks ago just by watching a neighbor punch it in, and since then I've mapped the entire community on foot. Three cameras. One at the entrance, one at the exit, one near the mailboxes. That's it. Sloppy security for a place this expensive. Easy to avoid. Easy to work around when the time comes.
I keep my head down and run. The familiar burn settles in. I try to stay in the work.
She keeps surfacing anyway. The curl of blonde hair over her shoulder. Those muted green eyes finding mine across the bar, already going glassy, her body registering something wrong before her mind caught up. The weight of her in my arms outside the motel.
I drag a hand down my face and push the pace.
Today's route is his neighborhood. I parked a few houses from the entrance, close enough to move fast, far enough that no one registers the truck. If a camera catches me running through here regularly, that's fine. Better than fine. Routine makes people invisible. A man who runs the same streets every morning is furniture. Nobody looks at furniture.
Everything about this is strategic.
Still. Harvee.
I don't know what I'm going to do about that. But I know the job comes first. And I know the job ends tonight.
By the time I finish, the wind has died and the neighborhood is perfectly quiet.
I take that as confirmation.
It's past two in the morning when I pull into Raul's driveway and dial his number.
"It's done," I say when he picks up.
A long pause, the sound of him coming fully awake. "Yeah? Tell me more."
"Come outside."
The trailer door creaks open a minute later and he stumbles out shirtless, squinting against the dark, climbing into the passenger seat and pulling the door shut.
"How'd you do it?" he asks.
I lean back against the headrest. "Fentanyl in his vodka."
Raul goes still for a half second. Then he starts laughing, the kind that builds before it releases. He claps once, sharp.
"Genius. That is genuinely beautiful." He shakes his head slowly, grinning at the windshield. "Death by overdose. After defending the company that overdosed his client's daughter."He lets out a low whistle. "That's not just a hit, man. That's a statement."
I watch him. I'm bone tired.
"When do we get paid?"
"I'll message in the morning. Let him know it's handled." He's already reaching for his phone, still grinning. "Seriously though. Nice work, cuz."
"Get out of my truck."
He laughs and pushes the door open. "Say less. Night, killer."