The Hitman’s Angel

“You’re mine, too, Lenin.” I pull him down for a kiss and whimper against his mouth, “Come back safely.”

And he does.

But will I be there when he returns?

It takes me an hour to get restless.

Without Lenin around to distract me, the quiet becomes cloying and memories of the last time I was cooped up at a man’s request—was that really only yesterday?—begin to bombard my mind. I’ve never thought myself claustrophobic, but maybe the disorder has only developed since tasting freedom. I don’t like being stuck in one place without knowing my fate. And to top it all off, I’m worried about Lenin. What kind of danger is he in?

Could he get hurt?

With a small sound, I push to my feet, searching for something—anything—to distract me. I’ve already showered and eaten room service. I’ve doodled on the hotel stationery and watched fifteen minutes of a reality show. Nothing is holding my attention or making me any less anxious.

I pace from the bedroom to the living room and back again. On my second trip across the space, the telephone catches my eye. I haven’t had access to a phone since my mother left Baltimore. Hank only used his cell phone and didn’t have a landline. Excitement trickles into my belly. Is it possible to call my mother? Unless she changed her number, I know it by heart. She’s had the same one since she left my father.

My heart is clattering in my chest as I pick up the phone and hear the tone buzzing. I follow the instructions on the phone to dial out of the hotel and slowly key in my mother’s number. When it starts to ring, my mouth goes dry.

“Hello?”

My inhale is shaky. “Mom.”

“Margaret? Oh thank God.” Her relief is palpable through the phone. “Where are you, baby? I’m back in town. Tell me where you are!”

“You came back?”

“Yes! Just this morning. I missed you so much and I didn’t want to miss your eighteenth birthday! I just couldn’t stand to be away anymore.” She laughs nervously. “You weren’t where I left you.”

“Did you go to Hank’s?” My face heats. “Did he tell you he made me—”

“Just tell me where you are, please,” my mother says, more adamantly.

I frown down at the phone. Something seems off. “Um…”

“You’re in danger, Margaret. The man who kidnapped you is very dangerous.”

“He didn’t kidnap me,” I say quickly. “I left with him of my own free will.”

“Is he there? Is he making you say that?”

“No!”

“So he’s not with you right now?”

My nerves start to pop. “Mom, what’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you! The man you’re with was hired to kill Hank. He’s a murderer, baby. Tell me where you are so I can come pick you up.”

Those words drop in my stomach like falling pianos.

I close my eyes and see flashes of violence. Directed at myself. My mother.

I’ve fallen in love with a violent man. Just like my mother does, over and over again.

Even as I lament my seemingly terrible mistake, though, I can’t believe Lenin is a bad man. My heart won’t let it be true. My heart won’t stop loving him or believing in him.

“If you met him, you’d change your mind. He’s so good to me—”

Her scoff cuts me off. “How many times have I said those same words, Margaret?”

My face flames because she’s right. Still. I can see Lenin’s face, hear his voice, and it keeps me firm in my judgment. “He didn’t kill Hank. He’s…going to change. We’re going to leave this place behind.”

“Without seeing me?” Her tone takes on a higher pitch. “Can’t you come meet me for a little while before you go?”

“Of course I want to see you, I just told Lenin I’d wait for him to get back.”

“I don’t have much time, baby. Can’t you spare a few minutes?”

Disappointment smacks me in the face. She’s already leaving again? I don’t know why I’m surprised. She’s been absent for six months. Still, I can’t help but want to see my mother. She’s still the woman who curled around me in countless motel beds to keep me warm. The same woman who sold her sexual favors to feed me when times were tough. I owe it to my mother to at least spend a few minutes in her presence before we part ways again.

I cast a glance at the clock. Lenin has only been gone an hour. He said he would be back in two. There’s more than enough time to grab coffee with my mother before he gets back. He’ll never know I was gone.

“There’s a Starbucks near the hotel. East Pratt Street, I think?” I wet my lips nervously. Why am I so nervous? My gut won’t stop churning like a paddleboat wheel. “I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

There aren’t many clothes to choose from, but I pull on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, before shoving my feet into sneakers and finger combing my hair. I pause on the way out the door, a voice in the back of my head whispering “stay,” but I don’t listen.