Page 48 of Dirty Hit
That’s the job. Whatever else he does with his time is on him. I’m not his conscience. I’m not his keeper.
I’m not responsible if he snaps.
Except, I know what he does when he snaps. I’ve seen it and smelled it. I’ve sat at his dining room table and listened to him call someone to haul a body away. I know what “blowing off steam” means for him.
The idea that I might’ve just watched him walk out of my office, ready to go find someone to put his hands on in a way theywon’t survive, makes my stomach twist so hard I have to brace a hand on the back of the couch.
“This is insane,” I mutter to myself. “You’re not—this isn’t your business. He’s a grown man. He’s been doing this for years. He doesn’t need you monitoring his… murder schedule.”
Jericho hops up onto the armrest of the couch, tail flicking, yellow eyes fixed on me with that unimpressed stare that makes me feel like he’s the one paying rent.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say, pointing at him. “I know it’s messed up. I’m aware.”
He blinks slowly, stretches out, then curls himself into a neat loaf, clearly settling in to watch the rest of my internal implosion.
I walk laps around the coffee table, trying to shove the itch under my skin down and failing. It keeps coming back worse. That look on Dominic’s face, the note in his voice when he said:“I need to blow off some steam, anyway.”
I should leave it alone—I know that. I should take the win. I should grade my papers, pray about my feelings, go to bed, and show up for our session tomorrow like nothing is wrong.
What if this is how he looks when he’s ready to kill?
The thought comes uninvited. But there’s the other, worse thing that creeps in behind that.
What if he gets hurt?
It’s stupid. He’s dangerous. He’s six-foot-four and built like a weapon, and I’ve watched him snap a grown man’s neck like it was nothing.
But he’s not invincible—wrong place, wrong time cuts both ways. I keep thinking about the way he left my office, shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes distant.
I scrub both hands through my hair and groan. “This is a terrible idea,” I tell the empty room.
Jericho yawns. I grab my keys anyway.
“I’ll be back,” I tell him. “If I’m not, you’ll haunt Dominic’s cottage, okay?”
He makes a disgruntled noise and disappears under the couch.
Fair.
The drive out to the cottage is muscle memory by now. I realize halfway there how messed up that is. How easily I navigate the turns and side streets in the dark, with only the soft wash of my headlights cutting through the trees.
It barely occurs to me that I’m leaving my safe little bubble, and heading toward the place where I watched a man die on the floor and did nothing but sit at the table.
The sky is deep blue by the time I pull onto the gravel road, stars just starting to surface. The cottage sits at the end—solitary, with its porch light off. His Charger is parked where it usually is, and the Ducati is leaning next to it, helmet sitting on the seat.
Both of his vehicles are here, and it’s just after 9 p.m., but no lights are on inside. He’s home. He’s in there—either sitting in the dark or sleeping.
I pull in behind the Charger and kill the engine, the sudden quiet pressing against my ears. I sit there gripping the steering wheel, staring at the side of the house.
I didn’t think this through. I didn’t text or call to warn him. I didn’t do anything except drive out here, because it didn’t feel right sitting at home when I felt…uneasy.
“This is such a bad idea,” I mutter, but my body has already decided to get out.
Gravel crunches under my shoes as I walk up the path, the now-familiar cottage looming out of the shadows with the porch light off. Everything is too quiet here, and that doesn’t help with the tightness in my chest.
I stop at the bottom of the steps, and tell myself this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done—and I’ve done a lot of stupid things in the past two weeks alone.
I walk up the steps anyway, and stand in front of the door with my hand raised to knock, knuckles hovering an inch from the wood.
