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44

Eva

As we walk out of the chapel together, I can tell he’s scared of me—and I don’t mean scared that I’ll kill him. He’s doing that thing with his fingers, his nervous tic, and I wonder if it’s because he feels safer when he’s holding a weapon.

It might seem deranged that I can break bread with the murderer who I’m about to murder, but the truth is, I do stuff like this all the time. Deranged feels normal to me.

Plus, it’s a good way to initiate my plan. It’s called mirroring. He took me out to eat; therefore, I take him out to eat. He wants the girlfriend experience, so that’s what I’ll give him. We’ll eat and we’ll contemplate all the ways that we can kill each other, just like a normal couple.

“There’s this really great tapas restaurant in Barrio Chino,” he says. “They have private rooms—for eating, obviously.” Private means no cameras. We don’t need a repeat of Versailles.

“Perfect.” I smile. “No witnesses.”

He laughs, a little uncertain.

He thinks I’m crazy. He’s not wrong. But who is he to judge?

—

We get a private room at the tapas place. Jonathan orders a selection of tapas, consulting respectfully with the waitress.

She nods and backs out of the room. “The tapas, we are going to spread them out,” she says. “So you will get all different things at all different times. Traditionally, you take your time. You sit, you eat, you talk, you drink your wine. It’s all very nice.” It’s a good thing we came equipped with conversation.

The waitress leaves, but the threat of reentry, of all different things at all different times , hangs over us.

Jonathan looks to me for guidance. I’m in a bit of an awkward situation. I need to work my plan, but I also need to make sure he doesn’t realize I have a plan. And to do that, I need to address the murderous elephant in the room.

I take the first shot. “Why did you kill Andrew?”

He shifts in his seat. He’d better get comfortable being uncomfortable, because I’m just getting started.

“If I tell you, it could put you in danger.” He recognizes my disappointment. For the record, I wasn’t hiding it. “Do you believe that?”

I cross my arms. “I don’t care. Do you believe that?”

“I kill people for a living,” he says, so abruptly that it catches me off guard. I thought I was ready for anything, but I didn’t expect the truth.

Round One: Melon and Serrano Ham, King Prawns

We both jump when the door opens. The waitress enters with the wine and a tray of small plates. She arranges them on the table.

She places wineglasses in front of each of us. She pours my wine first.

“Please tell me when to stop,” she says. I completely blank. She reaches the top of the glass and stops pouring before it spills over.

“Thank you so much,” I say, remembering myself.

“This looks exquisite,” he tells her in Spanish.

We both watch her exit, beaming like lunatics. She makes a face. The door closes.

I chug the wine. Jonathan neatly dissects a prawn, then pops it into his mouth and chews contemplatively. He swallows.

“Your fiancé did, too,” he says.

“What?” I try to sound shocked, but my voice hits an odd note. I hope he doesn’t notice.

“I know it sounds outrageous, but it’s the truth. He was an assassin. He leaked privileged information to the Italian police. He was identified as a threat by powerful people.”

“Wait—what?” That I did not know. Andrew went to the cops? It takes me a moment to realize that Jonathan might be lying, but admitting he was a killer was pretty damn honest.

What Jonathan is claiming makes a little sense. Andrew seemed so preoccupied, and yet I know he was taking fewer jobs with the agency. He was also pushing me to quit.

A few days before he died, Andrew showed up at my apartment with some pretty serious bruises. It didn’t ring any alarm bells with me back then because it was pretty normal for us. Both of us were getting banged up all the time. But what if it was because of something else? Something he kept from me?

Andrew had seemed disillusioned with the agency. Maybe he was leaking secrets, but wouldn’t the Italian police be on the agency’s side? We were supposed to be the good guys. We were taking care of the bad guys for them.

“Who do you work for?” I ask. But what I really want to know is: Who do I work for?

Jonathan shrugs, snaps the tail off a prawn. “Whoever pays me the most,” he says, trying to be blithe, but I can tell he is nervous about what I’ll think. Sherri told me he was a henchman, that he worked for a very bad man, but that doesn’t seem to be what he’s saying. “I’m an assassin.” He spells it out. “I have a handler who finds me jobs. I pick and choose what I want.”

Fuck. That sounds a lot like what I do.

Sherri warned me not to believe anything Jonathan said. She told me he was deranged, but he’s being a perfect gentleman, even after I tried to kill him. He could probably take me now, in this private room with no cameras. He’s definitely still armed. But I know he won’t, and that means that part of me does trust him.

What if he’s not a bad guy? What if he’s me , at some other agency?

As much as I want answers, I need to be careful. I can’t risk blowing my cover.

“Maybe we should talk about something else,” I say.

“Oh, thank God ,” Jonathan says.

Round Two: Squid in Marinara, Goat Cheese and Grilled Pepper

The waitress enters and exits again. This time things are altogether calmer. We smile pleasantly at her. We thank her only a little too profusely.

The wine is working through my system, making me feel good about things I should feel terrible about, as wine does.

“So,” I say, “why did you come to Barcelona? Killing someone?”

He flinches. He’s really sensitive about his job. “I thought we were going to talk about something else,” he says hopefully.

“I meant not Andrew specifically, but we could go back to that.”

“No,” he says. “I’m not here to kill anyone. Although I did put in a pickup, in case something convenient comes up,” he admits. He’s being very honest with me. I’m a little shocked. I’m a little charmed.

I wish we could talk shop. There was something about him from the very beginning, a feeling I got that we were connected. I wonder if this is where it came from. “Did you know who I was that night on the train?”

He considers. “I thought you looked familiar, but I wasn’t sure why. I had seen your picture, but, uh, that was a very busy year for me…”

“Of course,” I joke.

“You know”—he pauses to taste his wine—“I have to say, you’re handling this a lot better than I thought you would.”

“The world is full of all kinds of people,” I say. The wine is making me philosophical.

He leans forward. “You knew…,” he says. I go cold all over. I feel a sure and violent chill that he knows everything. That he brought me here, to a private room—alone—to kill me. The waitress is probably in on it. It’s possible she poisoned the wine I’ve just polished off. I’m dead. It’s over. “…what Andrew did for a living.”

I swallow the biggest sigh. “Maybe,” I say, because I haven’t had time to think this line of thought all the way through. The wine is slowing me down. I never drink on jobs. I need to remember this is a job.

“You’re not an assassin, are you?” he asks. “I mean, you did make a fairly competent attempt on my life.”

“Fairly competent?” I repeat. I could tell him the truth. I could tell him everything. I could trust him all the way. “Andrew taught me. Self-defense.”

His eyes are tracing me, downloading my aura. I try to hold tight to my cool, my casual, my devil-may-care. “Fair enough,” he says. “You don’t seem like an assassin.”

See, now, that annoys me. “Why not?”

He sips his wine, then says, “You’re not fucked-up enough.”

“ Excuse me? Do we need to go over my childhood again? Because I remember it being pretty fucked-up.”

“What happened to you was fucked-up,” he says gently. “But you’re not.”

“I tried to kill you this morning and I’m having dinner with you right now.”

“I think that’s optimistic,” he says. “You know, I didn’t mean it as an insult.” He’s watching me closely. I wonder if he’s trying to spark a confession. Maybe he knows. Maybe he’s trying to goad me into admitting the truth.

Or maybe he really thinks he’s more fucked-up than I am. And I can’t let that go. “You know, women are just better at hiding how fucked-up they are,” I point out. “We have to be. Men can act unhinged and people think they’re troubled and romantic. Meanwhile, a messy woman is always—always—ostracized by society.”

“You’re right. I apologize.” I wish more men knew what a turn-on apologizing is.

I shift in my seat. “Anyway, if I were an assassin, you’d be dead by now.” If I were a good assassin, he would be. I should be killing him now, in this private room with a lock on the door and with no witnesses. That’s the truth. Instead, I’m questioning my handler and my job and my life.

“Probably.”

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

“No…” His eyes find mine and lock on. “I think you’re so fucking hot.”

Oh.

Round Three: Some Kind of Sausage, Tiny Potatoes, Olives, Something That Looks Like a Meatball

“How is everything?” the waitress says.

“Excellent,” Jonathan says.

“ So good,” I agree.

We beam at her. It’s pretty clear that she’s starting to get a little freaked out. She shuts the door quickly. It rattles in the frame.

I try a tiny potato. “What is it with you and stranding us in eternal meals?” I ask.

“It’s not me; we’re in Europe.” He is still watching the door.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Nothing.” He eats an olive, then notes, “There’s a lock on the door.”

I try the meatball thing. “I noticed.” I do not add that I noticed when I was contemplating killing him.

He shifts uncomfortably.

“What?”

“It’s just…” He drifts off. “I owe you an orgasm.”

My eyes shoot toward the door, like we’ve given the waitress a cue.

When she doesn’t enter, I lean forward. I grin at Jonathan. I lock the door.