Page 181 of Ruthless Creatures

When I knock on the door, an older woman answers.

“Hi there. How can I help you?”

I hold up the briefcase and tell her I’d like to make an offer on her house.

Two hours later, I’ve got the keys and Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan have more money than they’ve made their entire lives. They took their clothes and some personal belongings, but left everything else.

That’s the thing about people: Everybody has a price.

Which is why trust is for fools. That and “love,” which is even stupider.

The first thing I do is raid the refrigerator. I eat sliced deli turkey right from the package, standing in front of the open fridge door. When that’s finished, I polish off a container of egg salad, devour a rotisserie chicken, and guzzle a liter of Coke. Then I prowl through the place, looking for the best spots to set up my cameras and security equipment. I find a dusty boxer’s punching bag in the garage that probably hasn’t been used in thirty years and install it in the room that faces the side of my target’s house.

As I’m doing that, I spot my mark.

Standing on her front porch, she’s wearing a white sweater and pajama pants with cartoon images of smiley strawberries all over them. Her long black hair is tousled, partially hiding her face. Her feet are bare. She’s watching a big shaggy dog sniff around in the bushes, and her arms are wrapped around her body as if she’s cold. Which she probably is. September in the mountains has a bite.

Then she steps out from under the porch overhang and turns her face up to the sun, and my heart stops beating. As if it’s been stabbed, the fucking thing literally stops dead in my chest.

She’s beyond beautiful. There’s not a word for what this woman is. Artificial intelligence couldn’t even create a goddess like this.

Frozen, I stand and stare at her in disbelief.

When she stretches her arms overhead, yawning, and hersweater rides up so I glimpse a flash of her flat belly, my heart decides it’s alive again and starts thumping so hard, it leaves me breathless.

I turn away abruptly and stare at the blank wall until my vision clears of the image of her that’s burned onto my retinas.

I blow out a hard breath and shake my head. When I turn around again a few moments later, the girl and the dog are gone.

I walk unsteadily into the bedroom and sit on the bed until my hands have stopped trembling and my heartbeat has slowed.

Then I have a nice, long talk with myself about what a fucking idiot I am.

I remind myself I’m ruthless. I’m a killer. I murder people for a living. I don’t have ridiculous things likefeelings,and even if I did, I’m much too fucking tough to get knocked sideways at the mere sight of a beautiful girl.

When that’s done, I feel better. Just to boost my mood even more, I make a list of my favorite memories.

Recalling all the creative ways I’ve ended lives always gives me a boost.

I spend the next week observing her. I note what time she leaves for work, what time she comes home, what time the lights go out when she goes to bed at night. I tell myself this is necessary reconnaissance, and that to be successful at extracting the information I need, I must get to know her habits, but I know it’s bullshit. I could walk next door and make her talk in five minutes if I wanted to. This whole enterprise could already be complete.

The fact that it’s not is concerning.

By Friday morning, I’ve consumed every bite of food in the house, so I make a stop at the local grocery store. By dusk, I’m crawling the walls with restless energy. I decide to go out for a beer. I drive to a joint called Downrigger’s on the lake, park, and take a seat at the bar.

That’s when the black-haired beauty walks through the door.

Fuck. She’s even better up close. And those legs…

Shut the fuck up about her legs. She’s a job, idiot. What’s the matter with you?

Clenching my jaw, I watch her walk to a table near the window. She’s with a brunette about her age who struts through the place like she’s on a fashion show runway. They sit for only a minute or two before my black-haired beauty stands up again and heads toward the restrooms.

After five minutes, she hasn’t returned.

What’s taking so fucking long? Why’d she go alone? Is she making a phone call? Is she talking to someone? Or… could someone else have gotten to her first? Am I not the only one on this job?

Is she in danger?