Page 5 of Faded Rhythm

King

We’re in her bedroom and she’s on her knees.

Not in the way her husband used to enjoy. Not in the way I let myself imagine that one and only time before I pushed the image out of my mind forever.

She’s on her knees gathering herself, apparently too weak or too nervous to climb up onto her bed. She sits like a statue, back straight, arms stiff at her sides, eyes locked on the floor beneath her like it has the answers she seeks.

I sit across from her in a wingback leather desk chair, one of those overpriced ones that matches this kind of house. Showy and grand for no reason.

The room smells good. Something floral, but also sweet. Maybe it’s her.

Whatever it is, it’s distracting.

“I’m gonna ask you again,” I say, my voice low. “Why would your husband want you dead?”

She hesitates.

Not for long, but long enough to raise every flag I’ve been trained to notice. Her fingers twitch against her thigh. Her lips part, but nothing comes. Then, finally, “I don’t know.”

She’s lying.

Maybe not entirely. Maybe it’s a half-truth. But it’s not the whole picture. I’ve interrogated insurgents, smugglers, arms dealers, and mercenaries for hire. I’ve dragged answers out of people much tougher and more criminal.

But Sable?

Pretty, scared, confused Sable?

I don’t know how to get in her head. Not yet.

My eyes fixate on her face. Up close, she’s even prettier than she was through my binoculars. There’s something about her face—it’s delicate, but not fragile. There’s a quiet strength in her that manifests on her face, but it hasn’t hardened her. She’s soft.

Even now, disheveled and wide-eyed with fear, she’s breathtaking. The complete opposite of everything I’ve been exposed to throughout my life.

Group homes full of other hard legs. Barracks. Makeshift camps in the middle of nowhere. My life’s been a rough combination of dirt, steel, and grit. Men who are hard and broken. Sable is the kind of soft I don’t know what to do with. It makes me feel uneasy.

Even her voice. It’s so soft and feminine and pretty, if a voice can be pretty. The kind that can read you a story or sing you to sleep. Clear like wind chimes at dusk. It’s the kind of voice I’ve only ever heard on television.

“I don’t understand any of this,” she says softly. “I don’t know who to trust.”

I shift in the chair, elbows on my knees, fingers laced. “Doesn’t seem like you have much choice.”

She looks up at me, eyes shining.

“Why didn’t you just kill me?”

My chest tightens.

It’s a fair question, but I don’t like that she asked it.

I’ve done way worse for way less money. This should have been a straightforward job. And I should have done it. But something about it felt wrong from the start.

I tell myself it’s because of the girls. Because I knew kids live here. But that’s not the entire truth, and I know it.

“I’ve watched you,” I say carefully. “You seem like a good mom. You don’t seem like you deserve this. And, for some strange reason, I wanna help.”

She blinks slow, like the world is spinning too fast around her.

Finally, she asks, “What’s your name?”

I pause.

Names are monuments.

They tie you to things.

People. Places. Mistakes.

“Call me King,” I say. “That’s what I go by.”

She watches me for a beat, then nods once. It feels like the genesis of some trust between us. Or maybe it’s just resignation.

“What if I go to the police? Would you be willing to be a witness?”

I shake my head. “You know what he told me? He said, verbatim, ‘don’t worry about local cops. If there’s a hiccup, I’ll take care of it.’”

Her face falls in recognition. “Right. I forgot about that. He has connections.”

Her shoulders drop as the weight of that fact settles on top of her.

“There’s something else,” I add. “Brett isn’t just counting on me to do this. If I don’t, he already made it clear he has other people who can get it done.”

Her face crumples.

Tears slide silently down her cheeks. She doesn’t wipe them, which makes me want to reach out and brush them away. I wanna touch her back. Her wrist. Her hair. Something that feels human.

But I don’t.

I’m not supposed to care.

Not again.

Looking at her there, knees pressed to the floor, hugging herself, I’m back in that village. On the mission we only hint at, but never talk about. I see the woman in the red scarf. The explosion. The graveyard we left behind.

I shake it off.

Stay here, King.

She looks up. “What should I do?”

“Run,” I say immediately, because that’s the only answer I know. “Disappear.”

She shakes her head. “I have daughters. They can’t live like that. Always moving. Looking over their shoulders.”

I nod. I get it.

“Fake your death,” I say.

Her eyes widen.

“It could buy you some time. At least get Brett off your back. If he thinks you’re dead, he won’t send somebody else after you.”

She stares at me like I just handed her an antidote made out of cyanide.

Yes, it’ll be painful, but it’s her only way out.

Finally, she seems to understand that. She nods. Barely, but it’s a yes.

“How were you supposed to do it?” she asks, her voice so quiet, I lean in.

“Home invasion,” I say. “Middle of the night. Break-in gone wrong.”

She gasps, then covers her mouth.

“Our daughters would’ve been here,” she says as her face crumples again.

I don’t say anything.

There’s nothing to say, really.

She knows what that means. If she didn’t before, she definitely understands now what a piece of shit her husband is.

Sable wipes her face with the back of her hand, her jaw set. The tears are gone as quick as they came, replaced with something steelier.

Resolve.

“Okay,” she says. “Help me do it.”

“You sure?”

“No,” she admits. “But what choice do I have?

She stands on shaky legs, still hugging her arms across her chest. “I have to pick up the girls.”

“I’m coming with you.”

She shoots me a look, prompting me to shrug.

“While you’re over there not trusting me, I’m over here not trusting you.”

She hesitates, then nods, her eyes dropping to my hand. “Are you bringing that with you?”

“Never leave home without it.”

She goes to speak, but changes her mind.

“After you,” I say, lifting my arm for fanfare.

I’m halfway concerned that she’ll bolt as soon as the door opens, but she doesn’t. We settle into the white Lexus I’ve been watching and head up to the school to pick up the girls.

The woman who’s driving?

No longer my target.

She just became my charge.