8

8

As we walk the block to my house, our senses are on overdrive, searching for even the slightest sense of danger.

“We’ll need to be careful going in,” Jason whispers. “We didn’t see anyone go in while we were here, but they may have already gotten in before we showed up.”

“Jason, please,” I reply with my most derisive snort. “I may not be as organized or fiscally responsible as you, but that doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.”

I pull out my smartphone and open up the app which connects to my house’s security system. A quick check of the house’s sensors confirms no one has even put a foot on the front lawn since I left the house yesterday morning for my mother’s funeral.

As we approach my driveway, I use the app once more to unlock the alarm system, then return the phone to my purse, thinking I can’t wait to get out of this damn dress and into some clothes with pockets.

Despite my confidence in my alarm system, we still proceed cautiously into the house—better safe than sorry right now. The house appears to be just as I left it and all is quiet . . . too quiet.

“Let’s make this quick,” Jason whispers, confirming that he’s as uneasy as I am. “Just grab what you absolutely need to survive on the run, and let’s get out.”

I nod in agreement.

I lead the way to the back of the house where my bedroom is and cautiously open the door. I consider asking Jason to stay in the hall because I’m still not sure I trust him to know the secret of my hiding place, but 1.) splitting up right now is probably not the best of plans, 2.) it’s probably moot anyway since I doubt I’ll ever be able to come back to this home again, and 3.) I suppose I should lend him a little bit of trust, considering he’s saved my life and all.

I cross the room to my second walk-in closet—the one where I store my extremely large collection of stuffed plush animals. No, it’s not that I like to cuddle them. Sheesh. It’s just that I frequently find the need to unleash my rage and kill something, and since I haven’t been allowed to kill outside of work for the last several years, I found ‘murdering’ stuffed animals made a relatively decent substitute.

I briefly consider taking a couple of the fluffies with me, just in case, but then remember I’m no longer bound to T.H.E.M., and can kill someone if I want to, as long as I cover my tracks and don’t get caught. After all these years of being under the umbrella of T.H.E.M.’s contract, I’m not sure how I feel about this sudden, unexpected liberation.

I start tossing the fluffies out of the closet to make my way to the back.

Jason makes no comment about my out-of-character collection, as he was well aware of my hobby back when we were dating. Hell, there were a couple of times he joined me in slaughtering a bunny or two. I could lie and say it hadn’t been a warped form of foreplay for us, but who am I kidding. Yeah, it was. What can I say? Killing things—even inanimate objects—gets me off.

Before I was hired by T.H.E.M., I was known as the Preying Mantis due to my proclivity of killing men mid-coitus. Jason is just about the only man I’ve ever had sex with more than once that I have not had the urge to kill. Duke Anderson in Tennessee was a close second to getting that distinct honor, but considering I did end up having to kill him—even though I felt really bad about it—kinda disqualifies him from actually getting the trophy.

Anyway, I clear a path through the fluffies and push back against the bottom corner at the back of the closet, which gives way to a hidden compartment I’d built myself after moving in. I reach into the darkness and pull out a small black lockbox. Just to make sure, I pull a key out of my purse and confirm that the contents of the lockbox are all in place: a large wad of cash, along with several fake driver’s licenses and passports, each with forged photos of me in various disguised looks.

“All’s here,” I say, as I lock the box back up and return the key to my pocket. “Just let me grab some clothes and other essentials and we can get out of here.”

The universe, in its infinite love of fucking with me, of course, chose that moment to rear its ugly head once more, as my phone begins playing ‘Call Me Maybe’ from inside my purse, harshly shattering the monotonous silence of the night. No, I don’t like the song. I fucking hate it with every ounce of my being. It fills me with a murderous rage whenever I hear it, which is precisely why I set it as the specific ringtone for my house alarm app.

“Fuck, we’ve got incoming.”