Falling for the Killer

I looked at the house. I’d never been there before—this was Stuart’s place, and I’d only ever visited the main Plight mansion. This house was smaller, a bit more modest, though it had the columns, big windows and tall peaked roofs that marked it as one of the more expensive dwellings in the area.

Stuart couldn’t help but show off his wealth, even if most of it came from his family.

“You think this is the only way, right?” I asked, leaning my head back against the seat.

“We could come up with another idea,” he said. “Something short of killing him.”

I closed my eyes and thought about Stuart’s grabbing my wrists, about him pushing me against the wall, about the abuse and the fact that I was ready to give in to all that, ready to accept my lonely and broken life if it meant helping my family, and I hated him for it, hated all of them. If I could kill them all, I would.

“Let’s do it,” I said.

Gian nodded once and took a gun from the glovebox. He slipped it into the waistband of his dark pants and stepped out of the truck.

I followed him. The neighborhood was pitch dark and not a single person was outside this late. I scanned the other houses, looking for shifting curtains or any sign that someone was watching, but there was nothing but the night.

Gian skirted around the side of the house. He hesitated near the windows, but jumped the back fence. He helped me over, and we walked up onto a beautiful back patio with a pool sunk down into the earth. A blow-up giraffe floated in the deep end. The furniture was black metal and a massive built-in grill and oven took up the left side of the house.

The back door was locked, but Gian picked it. “I’m not good at this,” he whispered, his face screwed up in concentration, “but I get the job done.”

It took him a few horrible, anxious minutes. I jumped at every sound—at a neighbor’s dog barking in the distance, at the sound of the wind in the trees, at the flutter of owl wings. It felt unreal, that we were here to murder a man.

Gian got the door open. He hesitated inside the small mudroom, waiting for the sound of an alarm, but there was nothing. Typical of people out here—nothing bad ever happened to the rich.

We moved past piles of shoes and a washer and a dryer, and stepped into a large kitchen. Granite countertops, expensive cooktop. It looked like it had been professional staged, and for all I knew, it had been. Stuart probably never actually cooked.

There were no lights on downstairs. Gian checked the living room and I poked my head into an office. Bookshelves loomed, the desk was a modern wood-and-metal contraption that probably converted to stand. There was a home gym in the basement and a built-in bar that looked like a real pub, and the whole place reeked of rich bachelor indulgence.

As I followed Gian up the stairs, I realized that I was so close to making this place my own.

If things had gone differently, I would’ve moved in here. The decorations would’ve changed, the place would’ve softened a bit, but it still would’ve been Stuart’s. I would’ve been Stuart’s, my whole life owned and controlled. It didn’t matter that I was born into money—I was still born to marry for my family’s power.

The door at the far end of the upstairs hall was shut. The wooden floorboards creaked and crackled with every step. Gian took the gun from his pants and held it in both hands. He looked back at me and nodded once before turning the knob—

The lights flashed on. Stuart stood next to the bed with a gun in his hand. I threw myself sideways and bashed against the wall as he pulled the trigger. It sounded like an explosion, and Stuart let out a shocked scream.

Gian returned fire. I dropped to the floor, hands over my head, and stared as Stuart took a bullet to the leg. He groaned and staggered, and the gun fell from his hands. It was a small pistol, silver with gold inlays. Even the man’s home defense weapon looked like it was trying too hard to be fancy.

Gian walked over and kicked the gun away from his reach. Stuart wore a flannel pajama set with his initials embroidered on the chest. Blood spouted from a wound as he writhed and moaned, hands pressing against the red-bubbling hole.

I slowly got to my knees, then stood and walked to join Gian.

“Oh, god,” Stuart said, groaning. “You shot me. You stupid fuck, you shot me. What the hell are you doing here?”

“What the hell are you doing, shooting first?” Gian asked, sounding genuinely surprised.