She doesn’t believe me. “Who was that?”
“No one.”
The lie lands wrong, and I see it in her eyes.
“Whatever,” she says and looks down. “You’re getting farther away from me. And I’m too exhausted to fight for this marriage to be something we can both enjoy.”
We got married right before the swing into themidterm crunch that sails into finals. This is fucking medical school. I’ve kept a physical and an emotional distance between us. This is what’s best for her. Even if she doesn’t realize it.
Still, regret hits me hard as I watch her walk down the hall.
Mercer steps into her path, saying something that makes her laugh and grab her classmate’s arm. They look young and carefree with a positive outlook. I’ve been through hell and can barely smile except when I hold J.P., or I glance over in my bed to see my wife there. Safe.
Anger sparks in my chest. Hot. Possessive. Reckless.
I had no idea my distance was making her sad. Am I sending a message that if it’s not real, she can find relief somewhere else?
Sex is a way to release pent-up energy and reduce stress. That’s a medical fact.
Maybe my marriage shouldn’t be no contact if it will help her deal with the stress.
But first, I have to kill someone.
The following night, I track down the last dealer I’ll kill for Harrow. The scum is in a park on the Lower East Side wearing a stupid backwards baseball cap, leather jacket, and ripped jeans, handing off poison to a jittery high schooler.
Doesn’t matter that it’s Adderall or Xanax and they’re legal. The lowest cut of scum dealers are the ones who aim at children and their insecurities. According to Harrow, this guy got caught with phone records linked to kids who died from a fentanyl-laced batch of pills.
And still made bail!
I watch as the kid takes the pills and jogs away.
The remorseless dick sits on top of a park bench and lights up a smoke. Perfect. I turn down an adjoining pathto do this from behind. Hand in pocket, the syringe feels cool between my fingers. Perfectly measured with drugs that will shut down his heart before he can gasp one more breath or take in one last view of the city lights.
That’s the justice I deliver to grieving families. And I want no credit.
A small crunch under my foot stops me in my tracks. Goddamn dry fall leaves on the ground. My mark twists around, and I freeze.
He wears an appropriate look of horror staring at a man all in black, his face half covered, black gloves, and holding a glass syringe.
Fuck.
“You,” he says, scrambling off the bench. “I… I heard about you. The fucking Feds are looking for you.”
“They are. And who will look for you?”
“Shut up.” He takes out a gun and points it at me.
Oh crap…
I haven’t had to use my gun on these jobs. Too many unknowns. Blood splatter. Shell casings.
I lunge and jab my elbow into his throat, knocking his legs out from under him.
He falls, drops the gun, and I kick it aside. Did I touch it? Fuck, my brain is processing too many things at once. Then a glass bottle hits me on the head. He had it in his other hand, and I didn’t see it. Sparks of green glass explode above my eye, and I ignore the sharp bite of pain.
The blow to my head allows dealer boy to sprint off like a terrified deer.
I chase him and can’t believe my luck when he finds the gate at the other side of this park is locked. He tries to climb the wrought iron fence, but I get there just in time to pull him down by the ankles. His face breaks the fall, and his mouth is full of blood.