Page 10 of Stalk (Assassin’s Kiss Duet #1)

Ren

A fter watching and following Helena for the last couple of days, I know her routine like the back of my hand. I wish I didn’t—just like I wish today wasn’t already Wednesday.

I wake up at my usual time, around nine.

At this time, Helena should still be passed out on her couch.

Though she has a bedroom in her apartment, she never uses it.

Not even to have sex. I know this because of the cameras I broke in to install shortly after reading Helena’s report on Monday.

It was much easier to break in and go unnoticed due to Helena being severely under the influence, but invading her privacy in that way still left me feeling utterly disgusting.

I waited until nightfall on Monday, then made my way into her apartment.

I wasn’t sure if she was awake or not, but I did know that she was alone.

She had gone to the store for a pack of Newports and then came straight home.

I waited an hour, then slowly turned the knob.

Never have I ever encountered an unlocked door in this profession, but I guess with Helena’s addictions, I’m not too surprised by it.

After entering, I tiptoed in as quietly as possible only to find Helena snoring on the couch, a burnt out cigarette still dangling from between her middle and index fingers.

The TV was on, and the volume was loud enough for me to relax a little.

Instead of tiptoeing around, I walked around her sad apartment until I found a couple of good spots to set up my cameras.

I placed one camera on her TV stand, which blended in perfectly with the fake black wood. Because of Helena’s alcohol abuse, I placed the other camera in her kitchen, right on the side of her toaster. I figured those two spots made the most sense.

Once the cameras were set up, I watched. Snooped. Studied.

At first, I noticed her breathing. With her mouth hanging open and her sickly face bent awkwardly over the side of one arm of the couch, her breaths came out heavily and with a faint gurgling sound.

Every few minutes, she coughed in her sleep.

The type of cough that was almost too painful to listen to.

I desperately wanted to reposition her and move her onto her side with a pillow to support her neck.

I wanted to remove the forgotten cigarette from between her bony, nicotine stained fingers. But I knew better than to do that.

Observe, take notes, plan, and under no circumstances, get involved.

I spent a long while watching Helena in her semi-comatose state, then I ventured out to take a look around the rest of her apartment.

I did it in-person Monday evening so that I wouldn’t have to come back until assassination day—hence, the cameras.

I know by now that it’s better for my mental state to stay away as much as possible.

Or, it’s good for whatever’s still functioning of my mental state.

Off to one side of the living room, there is an entryway to the kitchen, so that’s where I went first. If I wasn’t already depressed because of Helena’s overall condition, I definitely was after finding the fridge barren, aside from a half empty jug of wine, two half empty bottles of vodka, three expired cheese sticks, and a lime that had seen much better days.

The cupboard wasn’t much better. Unwashed, sour cups with grimy rims and a couple of crusty plates rested in a sink majorly populated by fruit flies and German cockroaches.

The trash bin overflowed with trash falling out and onto the linoleum floor.

I lasted a total of two minutes before getting the hell out of there.

I tiptoed across the living room until I was in a small hallway with three doors—one in front of me and two on either side of where I stood. The door in front of me was just a little bathroom, so I skipped going in and instead went into the door on my right.

As soon as I entered the room, my heart sank all the way down to the nasty carpet beneath my feet. I quietly closed the door behind me, then turned on the light switch beside the door, despite not wanting to see more.

One twin sized bed rested in one corner of the room, adorned with a Jurassic World comforter and matching pillowcase.

In the other corner was a white toddler bed with a tiny pillow, a baby blanket with little lambs printed on it, and several stuffed animals.

Both sets of bedding were rumpled, as if the boys had just woken up and were to return at any moment.

Pictures of the boys and Helena hung in framed collages on the walls along with some dinosaur-themed prints. A little bookshelf with board books and picture books sat abandoned near the door, with some books stacked on top, as though Helena was too tired to put them back where they belonged.

My throat closed up and my eyes stung with unshed tears.

I had to get out, so I flicked off the light and took my leave.

By the time I made it to Helena’s bedroom, I stopped breathing altogether.

Once the door was closed and the light was on, my back pressed into the wall.

I slid down until I was seated on the scratchy carpet, my hands clasped on top of my knees which pressed into my chest. I stayed there for a while, resting my cheek on my hands, until I forced myself to breathe, but the smell of her room made my head spin.

You have to get it together, Ren. Finish looking around, and then get the fuck out.

When my tears had dried and my breathing went back to normal, I used what little strength I had left inside of me to stand up and looked at Helena’s bedroom for the first time since entering.

Whereas the boys’ room looked almost normal, Helena’s space was like being inside of something from a nightmare.

I shouldn’t have expected anything different.

A barren, stained mattress laid off to one side of the room.

Dirty clothes rested in a sloppy heap on one side of the bed.

Empty beer cans, vodka bottles, and wine bottles were scattered throughout the room.

There was no dresser, no bedside table, no pictures.

Nothing to make Helena’s room an oasis. I spotted a couple of gunky meth pipes on the floor along with too many empty baggies to count and several lighters.

The room smelled of old vomit, and though I couldn’t spot any, I could only figure the stench came from her dirty clothing by the bed. I breathed in and out shakily through my mouth as I walked slowly around the room. When I’d seen everything I needed to see, I turned off the light and darted out.

Helena was in the same position on the couch when I came back to the living room. After ensuring my cameras were still set to record, I left the same way I came in—through the unlocked door.

Yesterday, I stayed home and watched Helena on the cameras.

She slept until noon, woke up, hit her pipe, and then sat on the couch and drank until the evening.

Like her report had said, her boyfriend, Christopher, came over around seven that night.

He came in without knocking, kissed Helena on top of her head, then set two plastic bags full of wine on the floor by their feet.

Without missing a beat, Helena opened one of the bottles and took a gulp from it, not bothering to find a cup.

Christopher dug around in his jeans, then pulled out the drugs I knew he was dropping off.

It was hard to watch them smoke together.

Like I was personally inside an episode of Intervention or something.

They smoked, they drank the wine, and then Christopher had his way with Helena, right there on the couch.

I had to walk away at that point. Helena has already been violated enough.

She didn’t need the person hired to kill her to watch her have sex.

From what little I did see, though, it was like Helena was in a zombie-like state as Christopher undressed her.

He didn’t even bother to kiss her on the lips before getting down to it.

When I came back to the video about fifteen minutes later, he was gone.

I snap myself out of my memory of Monday and get my day started. After I fully wake up, drink my protein shake, and make my coffee, I go back to the computer. I’ll watch Helena today, too, until I go over to her place this evening once I know she’s passed out so that I can finish this assignment.

With a groan, I sit back at my computer and turn on the feed. I sip my scalding hot coffee while the video loads. Suddenly, my work cell phone rings with the sharp, high-pitched ringtone that is assigned to only one person in my contact list. Catherine.

All of a sudden, I’m wide awake thanks to my anxiety. I set my coffee mug down and answer the phone in seconds. Catherine doesn’t like to be left waiting, and I don’t want to piss her off.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Good morning, Ren,” Catherine says. “I wanted to check in with you before your assignment tonight. Are you prepared?”

That’s Catherine for you. She loves to skip any casualties and jump straight to the point. I don’t mind it, though, because that means our conversations are short.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer simply.

She hums. “Excellent. Do you know your method?”

I hold my breath. “I will utilize code O1.”

We have codes for every method of assassination for situations like this.

We would never actually say how we plan to kill someone over the phone.

That’s a recipe for disaster, even on a secured line.

O1 is code for killing by an unsuspected overdose.

Easy enough for Helena, sadly. I am meeting with one of Catherine’s employees later to pick up the deadly dose of crystal meth that I will use to shoot her up.

“Good choice, Ren,” Catherine says with approval. “Estimated time entrance?”

Entrance. Also known as execution.

“Approximately seven thirty this evening.”

“Wonderful. As always, Ren, please call me when the assignment is completed. I will see you tomorrow at ten for our meeting.”

“Okay—”

And then she hangs up. I place my phone face down on the desk and turn my attention back to my computer where both feeds from the cameras inside of Helena’s apartment play the live feed.

I’m stunned when I see that Helena is not only awake, but she’s pacing. Back and forth, back and forth. She wrings her hands nervously as she walks the length of her living room, a deep frown etched into her face. What in the world is going on?

I sit there and sip my coffee while I watch as Helena restlessly moves around her apartment.

Eventually, she goes into the kitchen and pours the last of a bottle of wine into a coffee mug with shaky hands.

She chugs the contents of the mug in one go, then tosses the mug into the sink with a clink.

My heart races when Helena throws her arms onto the counter and bangs her head against the hard surface.

She slams her head several more times and then screams. When she straightens back up, she staggers, but I don’t fail to notice the wetness from tears that glisten on her cheeks.

Helena takes in a rough breath of air, and then crouches down and rummages for something in the cabinet underneath the kitchen sink.

When she comes back up to a stand, a black trash bag is in her hands.

The last couple of sips of my coffee sits abandoned in my mug as I stare at the screen in wonder.

First, Helena tosses all the empty bottles of wine and vodka into the bag.

She goes back into the living room, and my jaw drops when I see her throw away her meth pipe, the rest of the empty liquor bottles, and the baggie with the small remnants of meth that Christopher brought over last night.

After she’s through with the living room, she disappears into the hallway with the trash bag in tow and reappears minutes later.

The bag is totally full, and it looks almost too heavy for her frail body to lift.

Helena pauses by the couch and drops the bag down to the floor.

She wipes her brow, then ties up the bag.

For a while, she just stares at it. Then, she drops to her knees, clasps her hands together, touches her forehead to her hands, and closes her eyes. It takes me a minute to understand that she’s praying. She’s… trying to get better.

My pulse skyrockets at my realization. This changes everything.

My plan for tonight, for one. But now? Now it’s going to be much more difficult to carry out this assignment.

I had successfully detached myself as much as I could over the last two days from Helena—the thought of her sons losing their mother—her horrible addictions.

But now… how the fuck am I going to kill her when she’s trying to get sober; trying to fight back?