The Family Cross Page 8

  No response immediately came to mind as we disappeared into the dark parking garage. What was I supposed to say? Sorry you’re a hit man?

  There was no sign of any police officers as we climbed the levels of the garage. Everything was normal when we parked. The same cars filled the same spots around mine, and the same daytime attendant stood at the second-floor desk. We received no stares or nervous stammering. Just the same smile and “welcome home, Miss Ashby” that I always did on the rare occasion I ventured to the Mercedes.

  I didn’t expect to feel the gaping hole of terror festering away inside me when I stood in front of my door again, but the only thing I could think of was Farrell. The way he crawled from my floor. How the wood squealed as he moved within it.

  “He’s dead.” Samson rammed the key in the lock. He knew what I was thinking without even touching me. My face must’ve said it all.

  Everything looked the same at first glance. Dark wood stretched from the door and into the kitchen and living room. White rugs. White couches. White ceilings. You’d never know blood was almost spilled here the night before.

  My gaze roved over the boning knife still resting against the baseboard and my clutch on the island. Thick gouges from my stiletto spikes brilliantly clashed against the dark stain of the floor. Greasy fingerprints were smeared along the glass door leading to my balcony.

  A long whistle from Samson briefly interrupted the laundry list of curses accumulating in my brain at the sight of my floor. “I didn’t really notice yesterday because you were about to die and all, but this place is really clean. Like borderline obsessive.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with liking a clean home,” I said and walked over to retrieve my clutch. My phone, nestled safely inside, had one text message from Eliza. She wanted to know if I was all right, and I scoffed. “There’s no reason to live like a barbarian.”

  “You got a maid?”

  “No. I like to do it myself. Being rich doesn’t mean I have to be helpless.”

  Samson gave me a once-over before he continued to look around.

  “I know a guy who’s kind of the same way.” Samson strolled around the living room and walked over to the balcony door. “You’d never know someone got offed in the room when he’s done with it. His attention to detail is insane.”

  The casual mention of murder was a little more insane than someone’s ability to clean, but I kept my opinions to myself.

  “Would you like to take a shower?”

  The only answer I got was a one-shoulder shrug.

  My bedroom was a brief source of comfort. It hadn’t been impacted at all by the fight, so it remained the untouched marvel it had been when I left for work yesterday: white comforter smoothed out and tucked into a low bed frame, accented with gray pillows and a throw blanket. After sleeping in such an unsettled state the night before, my bed looked particularly comfortable, but marveling at the bed wasn’t what I was supposed to be doing.

  The only shower in the condo was in the master bedroom. A powder room sat off the living area for guests, but I hadn’t expected to need a guest bedroom and second full bath. What was I thinking? Now I’d be sharing the only shower I had with a guy who would probably stick his stray hairs to the shower wall.

  A chill rolled down my back. So gross.

  “Here you go,” I said and pushed open the bathroom door. The white tiles of the shower glittered beneath the light fixture on the ceiling. Pristine.

  “This whole place reminds me of an insane asylum.” Samson laughed and slung his backpack on the counter.

  “What? It’s clean!”

  “I know. Everything’s white as fuck.” He smacked a dirty hand on the granite counter. “White sink, ceilings, towels, rugs—”

  “It’s clean!” He literally murdered people, and my tile and towels offended him? Really?

  Before he could insult my home anymore, I left the bathroom so he could shower, and I could reevaluate my floors. The gouges were wide and deep enough to set a penny in upright. Jimmy Choos were more dangerous than I thought.

  The gouges in the wood would have to wait to be fixed. I picked up the boning knife and then went to clean the fingerprints off the glass. I wanted every memory of Farrell scrubbed away and out of my life, although it was a little unfair to ask so much of window cleaner.

  As I wiped slow circles on the glass, my mind wandered. What could I have possibly done to warrant a hit? I didn’t have anything worth killing for. The family money was far from mine, and my brothers held more net worth than I did. Even if someone did manage to kill me, it wasn’t like my money would become theirs as I bled out on the floor. It was all safely stowed away in banks or invested.

  I dropped my forehead against the glass. This was ridiculous.

  “Do you realize that someone is plotting to kill you, and you’re wasting time cleaning your door?”

  I fought to keep from jerking back at the sound of Samson’s voice as my heart rate blasted past one hundred. Fear would control my life for a while.

  Samson stood there in fresh clothes with water running down his temples and neck. He didn’t look like a personified trash can anymore, and he actually wasn’t that bad looking, haircut notwithstanding. The backpack must’ve possessed a change of clothes. However, his outfit was simply a cleaner version of what he had on previously: jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Plain and gray.

  “Do you realize it’s like ninety degrees outside?” I asked as I picked up my cleaner and continued to take care of the fingerprints.

  He wasn’t impressed with my attempt at a comeback. Another drop of water started rolling down the side of his face after a loud groan and sudden jerk of his head shook it loose. “The long sleeves and jackets keep accidentally leaping into minds to a minimum.”

  My fear turned to another rash of heat on my face. Poor guy was just trying to live, and I was tormenting him.

  “In your experience”—I pushed myself to my feet—“why do people put out hits?”

  Samson ran a hand over his face and wiped away errant droplets. “You either pissed someone off or you have something they want.”

  I bit my lip. I didn’t remember making anyone angry. Actually, as someone often accused of being a people pleaser, the implication made my irrationally upset.

  “I don’t remember upsetting anyone, and I don’t have anything worth more than a million dollars.” My condo would’ve been the only thing, but it wasn’t something to kill over…at least in my estimation. “Any other reasons?”

  “Not common ones, no.” Samson scrunched up his nose. “Sleep with anyone’s husband?”

  My jaw dropped. “No.”

  “Wife?”

  “I’m not some home-wrecker!”

  “Didn’t think so, but thought I’d ask.”

  “All I do is work and sleep. I don’t think either of those things warrant being murdered.” The back of my eyes burned, and the shake in my chin that followed was of little surprise. A deep inhale pushed my lungs open, and I powered across the floor toward my bedroom.

  “You have to remember—people who buy hits aren’t like you, Fancy Pants.”

  His words stopped my furious stalk toward my bedroom. Samson, for all his faults, was right. He had more experience dodging killers, and getting offended at his questions would hardly help us figure out who bought my contract.

  “I’m going to take a shower.” My voice, weak and cracked, hopefully delivered the message I couldn’t make myself say. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”

  Samson left my bathroom just as clean as it had been before his shower. Well, if I excluded his mountain of dirty clothes beside the vanity anyway. Men. I kicked them toward the corner of the bathroom with an eye roll. A quick glance at the shower demonstrated a clear lack of stray hairs, dirt, or otherwise, and the bathroom-sharing situation was marginally less terrifying than it had been on first thought.

  I turned the shower handle and tried to sink back into the comfort I onc
e found in my home as the water warmed up. My towels, fluffy and clean, were warm and inviting in a world that had become unbelievably messy. How could I find comfort here now that tragedy seeped into the bones of this place? Could I move on from it and feel safe here again?

  Would I feel safe anywhere again?

  I glanced over my shoulder to the bathroom door. Whoever wanted me dead wouldn’t stop, and even if I survived this whole hit business, the memory of what happened here would never, ever go away. As the realization sank in while I undressed, the burn in my eyes morphed to tears, and soon you’d never know what water belonged to me or the showerhead.

  Eleven

  The night I spent in the weird apartment had nothing on the terror I experienced the first night back in my own bed. I’d managed maybe five minutes in my dark room before I ripped off my comforter and flopped onto the unused couch in the living room. Farrell might be dead, but my memory of him here never would be. Samson, possessing the uncanny ability to instantly fall asleep if he remained in one place for too long, had already passed out. Since he would likely make fun of me for being scared, it was probably for the best.

  The sun’s blistering rays shining through my balcony window woke me up before my phone alarm did. Sunday: the perfect day for planning how to escape a slew of murderers. My eyes, puffy from crying in the shower and a distinct lack of sleep, took a while to adjust. Samson hung halfway off the side of the couch, mouth agape.

  If I wanted to keep up the appearance of having a normal life, I needed to act like things were normal. My routine had been my routine for over a decade, and if I started coming to work without brushing my teeth or doing yoga, someone would notice.

  “Brush teeth,” I said to myself as I pushed off the couch. My mental list of to-dos would go on as usual. Sleepy Samson would get over it, and later we’d discuss how to elude these supernatural, would-be killers lurking around Manhattan.

  Samson didn’t stir until I was twenty minutes into yoga in the middle of warrior pose, arms and legs outstretched like the instructor on the living room television.

  “It’s hard to sleep with that lady yelling at you on the TV.”

  “She’s not yelling,” I said through a breath. “She’s instructing.”

  Samson didn’t say anything else. He moved on to check his phone and disappeared into the kitchen. It wasn’t until I finished yoga that I saw him cleaning his gun on the kitchen counter.

  The sight of him turning his pistol around in his hands made the familiar ball of anxiety twisting about in my gut expand. I’d escaped into my relative normal for thirty minutes, only to be rudely reminded that my life wasn’t normal anymore. I was being hunted for some reason, and it would be stupid to forget that.

  I took a shower, put on a pair of shorts and a tank top, and went out to the kitchen to make breakfast.

  Samson slammed the magazine back in the grip of his pistol and slipped it into one of his shoulder holsters as I padded into the kitchen. How he could stand to wear a long-sleeve shirt, a shoulder holster, and a jacket in this weather was nothing short of astounding.

  “Do you like bacon and eggs?” I asked as I opened the refrigerator door. Although, I suspected he’d eat anything I made. If he willingly visited The Den, then he could stomach an egg.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  As I laid strips of bacon into the frying pan, I tried to get lost in the sounds of my condo. The bacon crackling in the skillet. The news on the television. Samson’s voice. I’d never lived with anyone after I moved out of my family home, and even when I lived there, I might as well have been alone for all the attention I got. The only person who’d ever gone out of their way to talk to me was Masha, and she was paid to.

  My gaze slid over to the kitchen counter to Samson…cleaning another gun.

  This would take some getting used to.

  I got lost in bacon and eggs, and I even made some toast simply to keep my hands busy as Samson cleaned his second pistol. A telepathic hit man was cleaning his guns in my kitchen, and I made him breakfast. How utterly bizarre.

  “You’re taking this better than I thought you would,” Samson said and plopped into his seat at the table. He immediately smashed his egg with his fork, and the yolk spilled all over the plate and ran into his bacon. “I’m surprised you’re willing to believe in all this supernatural shit.”

  “Well, I watched a man crawl out of my floor and saw a human being with barracuda teeth. I didn’t have much of a choice.” I took a seat in front of him. My table was one of those small, square ones. A farmhouse table for four. The chairs weren’t that comfortable, but it looked nice. “Besides, if I’m willing to believe in God and Satan, I have to also believe other things I can’t explain are possible.”

  Samson shoveled some egg into his mouth, but that didn’t stop him from talking. “Still.”

  The bacon—perfect. Crispy, but not too crispy, and it fell apart the instant it hit my tongue. “Who knows? Perhaps you were blessed with telepathy for some grand purpose.”

  “Ha.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Your God is a sick bastard then.”

  The bacon I’d eaten turned to a block of lead in my stomach. While not particularly devout, I still didn’t like people saying things like that.

  “All right, we need to figure out what you have that someone else wants.” Samson thankfully changed the subject. “Why are you so rich?”

  “I’m not. Not really. It’s family money mostly.”

  “Well, you’re family, so you’re loaded.” He pointed at me with his fork.

  “But I didn’t earn it.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Whoever wants to kill you doesn’t care how it got in your account.”

  The thought simmered as I chewed. Criminals wouldn’t care how I got my money, that much was true. But it certainly changed the nature of the person hoping to get it.

  “If you kicked the bucket, who’d get your stuff?” Samson asked before he ate his last bite of egg.

  “My father.” I leaned back in the chair. Even if by some chance my father secretly hated my guts, it wouldn’t make sense for him to pay for the contract. It was his money. He could just cut me out of his will.

  “What about a stepmom?” Samson reclined in his chair as well.

  “He never remarried.”

  “How many siblings do you have?”

  “Two brothers.” I knew what he was getting at, so I continued. “Hudson will inherit the company and most of my father’s money, so he’d have no incentive to take a huge risk in hiring a hit man to kill me. Gerard has been trying to break away from my father his entire life, so I don’t suspect he’d do anything to strengthen his ties to him.”

  Samson drummed his fingertips on the table. “No one else?”

  My brain stretched further. Grandparents were all dead. No cousins. No living aunts or uncles. But—

  “Hudson has a daughter.” The air conditioner kicked on and shook the vents. “He hasn’t seen her since she was born. He pays child support, but that’s it.”

  “So she wouldn’t have a direct line to your cash.”

  “No. Unless my brothers and I all died, or my father got a wild hair and put Marie in his will, she wouldn’t have a shot.” I slathered some butter on my toast.

  “Hm.” Samson continued to drum his fingers on the table. “You’re his favorite, right?”

  “Whose favorite?” I leaned forward and took a bite.

  “Your dad’s favorite.”

  A snort shook against the back of my throat. “No. Hudson is his favorite.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Samson pursed his lips and looked up to the ceiling. The bruise that had been under his eyes the morning I met him had started to fade, although now that I knew his job, I couldn’t help wondering how he got it.

  “So this organization,” I began after I swallowed my mouthful of buttered bread. “Why’d you get kicked out?”

  He lifte
d an eyebrow. “Why do you think I got kicked out? I could’ve left politely.”

  “Well, you told Cliff they wanted to kill you, and Cliff seemed worried about his customers seeing the two of you speaking to one another, so I made the assumption.” Besides, Samson could hardly be described as polite. “A criminal organization of magical people and monsters doesn’t seem to be one of those entities amenable to a two-week notice.”

  Samson rolled his eyes. “Yeah. They don’t like those.”

  He didn’t immediately continue. Samson stared at his now still hands, mouth pressed into a tight line and neck corded. Out of desire to separate from the awkwardness hanging around the table, I ate my toast.

  “My old boss did something I couldn’t forgive.”

  My toast got lodged in my throat, and it took a few coughs to shake it loose. Samson didn’t seem too worried about my hacking and continued talking.

  “When I found out about it, I told him I would tear his head off and punt it through the front doors of the J. Edgar Hoover Building.” Samson still stared at his hands on the table. “And then I threw my work phone into the Hudson River.”

  It took a long silence and him eventually looking at me before I realized my mouth hung open like a flytrap. God. I must’ve looked like Richard.

  “You…” The words died every time I tried to say anything, but I eventually got out, “You told your boss you’d decapitate him?”

  “And drop-kick his head into the lap of the FBI.” Samson nodded, unashamed.

  After a lifetime of planning every move I’ve ever made, it suddenly came to my attention that I was a hopeless idiot. I invited this man into my home? I made this man breakfast? What was I thinking?

  Without anything to say in response, I decided to busy myself with the dishes. Samson, completely unapologetic with his confession, moved from the table to the couch.

  In my naïveté, I’d forgotten what he was. A hit man. A criminal. Right then he was on my side, but it would be stupid to get comfortable. Stupid to assume his loyalty couldn’t be bought at the right price. It took money to get his help, and money could take it away just as easily.