Page 8 of Lady and the Hitman

Her eyes gleamed. “Good. Then maybe you’ll finally get somewhere.”

“Somewhere?”

“You know. Out of your head. Off of that high horse you keep parked in your living room.”

I snorted. “You mean my moral integrity?”

“I mean your crippling overanalysis of everythingremotely hot. Your martyrdom. Your need to turn every instinct into a think piece.”

I opened my mouth to argue. Then closed it again.

Because I knew she was right.

Mina had always been good at slicing through the part of me I tried to keep protected—the part that did want. That did ache. That wasn’t interested in politics, only pleasure.

The part I was terrified would destroy everything I’d built if I let it out.

I looked back at my screen. The blinking cursor had stopped feeling like a challenge and started feeling like a dare.

Say what you want, it whispered.

Admit it.

But I wasn’t ready.

Not yet.

A sudden shift in tone from the muted TV across the room caught both our attention.

The co-working space always had the news on—silent, subtitles rolling, more backdrop than broadcast. But the banner across the screen this time was bold and urgent:

BREAKING: University Administrator Found Dead in Alleged Home Invasion.

I glanced up, half-distracted, but my stomach clenched when I read the smaller subtext beneath it:

Charles Redmond, 61, former Chancellor of Southeastern Christian University, shot and killed last night in what authorities are calling a targeted home invasion.

The screen flashed images: a tall metal gate, blue lights washing over a manicured lawn, the kind of massive brick house that always had a name instead of a number.Redmond Estate, the caption said.

A photo followed—him, smiling for a faculty headshot. Salt-and-pepper hair. Wire-rim glasses. A suit and tie that looked like it had been pressed by someone else.

Mina exhaled. “Damn. I know that name.”

I did, too. Unfortunately.

Charles Redmond had spent over two decades shaping policy and culture at one of the most aggressively conservative private universities in the South. He’d testified in support of anti-LGBTQ legislation. Had once published a widely circulated op-ed declaring feminism a “cancer” on Christian society. He’d silenced assault victims. Personally signed off on the firing of pregnant faculty who weren’t married. And despite all that—or maybe because of it—he’d been elevated to near-mythic status in certain circles.

I’d written about him. More than once. And I hadn’t pulled punches.

Still, the headline made my mouth taste like rust.

“God,” I muttered. “Someone really shot him?”

Mina raised a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not surprised,” I said. “I’m ... disturbed.”

“But not sad?”