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Jonathan

I call Thomas on the way into Barcelona. He is not happy to hear from me. He is never happy to hear from me anymore.

“I thought we agreed you needed to slow down,” he says. “Work–life balance, all that shite.”

“I’m not calling about work,” I say, although that is not totally true. “I’m just letting you know that someone tried to kill me.”

He laughs. What a guy. “You’re joking.”

“A girl I was seeing—thought I was seeing. Turns out I killed her fiancé. I thought we had something, but it was just revenge.”

“Where is she now? Did you kill her?”

“Of course not. I’m not a monster; I only kill for money.” I change lanes, four times in a row. “I think I like her more now. Is that weird?”

“Everything about you is weird.”

“She made a pretty competent attempt at my life.” It is true. She knew to muffle the gun. She was very handy with the knife. Most people do not know the exact placement for a knife to connect with a heart. I stopped the blade before it did major damage. I did not even have to stitch up the wound. I want it to leave a scar, a tattoo over my heart. “So competent, I’m wondering if she’s a professional. Is there some kind of database or something? Could you look her up?”

“What’s her name?”

“Eva.”

“Just Eva?”

“I mean, if she is an assassin, it’s probably not even that.”

“All right, female assassin. I’ll look into it.”

“One more thing,” I say carefully. I am supposed to be slowing down. And sometimes I think that I am, for all of ten, twenty-four hours. I think I have turned a corner. Then I call Thomas at two in the morning and demand another job.

Thomas has warned me at least a dozen times over the past six months: “You’re being reckless. You’re making yourself too conspicuous. If you’re not careful, something bad is going to happen.”

He was right; someone just tried to kill me. But instead of slowing me down, it makes me want to move faster, like I am finally getting somewhere.

I thought Eva and I had something, but of course we did not. I am a killer. I am not made for love. I am made for murder.

“I need something to take my mind off of all this.”

“Talk to a therapist.”

“I’m talking to you.”

“Jonathan.”

“Please,” I say tersely.

“This is getting out of control,” he says, like it was ever under control.

“Don’t act like you haven’t benefited,” I say. “Don’t act like you’re above it. You hired me. You’re the reason I’m here.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

I pull myself together. Threats will not convince him. “I’m headed to Barcelona. Just find me something nearby.”

“Jonathan, I’m warning you—”

“Just do it. Or I’ll find another handler.”

I do not know how I would do that, but right now I do not care. Maybe Thomas and I are not a good fit. He treats me like a human being. He has never understood.

I am something so much worse.