He stopped the van at the sign at the end of the block. The old man waited until the police car blasted by us, lights flashing and siren still wailing, then sedately made the turn toward home.
12
The death of Cesar Vaughn was big news in Ashland.
Bigger than I’d thought it would be, actually. Coverage consumed the newspapers and airwaves for the next few days, as story after story recapped all the grisly facts about the murder and then speculated about who had done it and why.
Of course, the most obvious thought was that one of the family members of the terrace collapse victims had decided to take matters into his own hands. The cops dutifully investigated each and every person who might have a grudge against Vaughn because of the tragedy, but they came up empty. Another reason that I’d decided to do the job on a Tuesday night: there was less chance of one of the victims’ loved ones not having an alibi. People tended to wait until the weekend to get up to no good.
That was also why I’d done the job at Vaughn’s office and had been so careful not to leave any evidence behind, so it would look exactly like the contracted hit that it was. I might be an assassin, but I didn’t frame people for the crimes I committed. That was another part of Fletcher’s code and one that I wholeheartedly agreed with. The people who’d lost their loved ones at that restaurant had already suffered enough. They didn’t deserve to get blamed for Vaughn’s murder too, even if one of them might have been behind the hit. Another reason that I’d used a knife on the job. That sort of stabbing attack was brutal, vicious, and, above all, up close and personal. Anyone could point a gun and pull the trigger from a distance, but not everyone could twist a knife into a man’s heart, face-to-face, and watch the light leak out of his eyes.
Still, the cops investigated, and they got nowhere, like I knew they would. Fletcher had a couple of sources in the police department, so he was able to keep track of the investigation. But I wasn’t worried. He had trained me too well, and no one had seen my attack on Vaughn.
The next day, I went about my regular routines as though nothing had happened. Waited tables at the Pork Pit, schlepped home to Fletcher’s for a few hours, then schlepped back over to the community college for my usual classes.
Going to college was another part of my cover, since that’s what most people my age did, and it was something that the old man had insisted on. Apparently, he thought that it would make me more well-rounded or something. You know, in case the whole assassin thing didn’t work out.
But I didn’t mind too much, especially when it came to the literature classes. Fletcher would read the same books that I was assigned, and then we’d talk about them during lulls at the restaurant. I loved our discussions, since it was another way that I could be close to him that Finn couldn’t—or wouldn’t.
Once my evening classes were done, I went back home for the night. And then I repeated the whole cycle again and again, just as I would until the next assignment came along.
The only thing I did that was out of the ordinary was read all of the articles about Sebastian Vaughn.
He appeared in story after story, both in the newspaper and on TV. And in every story, in every interview and sound bite, he was quite vocal about the piss-poor job he thought that the cops were doing in their so-far-unsuccessful attempt to find his father’s killer—me. Sebastian even vowed to hire his own team of investigators to track down the culprit, but I wasn’t worried. He’d never connect the waitress he’d flirted with once upon a time with the assassin who’d so coldly killed his father.
Still, I couldn’t help but watch interview after interview with him on TV, and I read every single newspaper article that so much as mentioned his name. Sometimes two or three or even four times over, searching for any hint in his words about how he was doing, how he was feeling, now that his father was gone. I’d felt such an intense spark, such an immediate connection with Sebastian. I supposed that I wanted to keep feeling it, even though I’d never see him again.
One photo that ran over and over again in the newspapers was of Sebastian leaving his father’s office the morning after the murder, a briefcase clutched in one hand. His mouth was set in a hard line, his dark eyes fixed on something outside the frame. He had his free arm around Charlotte’s shoulder, holding her close, as though he could somehow protect her from the hurt, shock, and bewilderment that the camera had captured in her young, heartbroken face.
I wasn’t exactly sure what prompted me to cut out that photo and tuck it in between the pages of the latest book I was reading, Murder for Christmas by Agatha Christie, for my detective fiction class. But the book and the photo stayed on my nightstand. Every night, I would read another chapter or two, before using the photo as a bookmark. Sebastian’s handsome, determined face was the last thing I saw before I shut the book.
Maybe it was crazy, but I wanted to reach out and help Sebastian, even though I didn’t dare to—and even though I was the one who’d caused him so much pain in the first place. Oh, I didn’t regret killing his father, not really, not when he’d been hurting his own daughter. But my heart still ached for the shock and suffering that I’d inflicted on Charlotte and Sebastian. So I kept tabs on him as best I could, hoping that his grief would slowly fade over time and knowing that he and especially Charlotte were better off without their father.
So life went on for me, Sebastian, Charlotte, and everyone else—except Cesar Vaughn.
Four days after the job, Saturday, I was alone in the Pork Pit and closing down the restaurant for the night when the bell over the front door chimed. I sighed, wishing that I’d thought to lock the door already, but I finished wiping down the counter, fixed a polite smile on my face, and turned around.
“Sorry, but we’re already closed—”
A bolt of shock zinged through me. My lips parted, but no words came out, because the very last person I’d expected had just walked through the door.
Sebastian.
He wore a somber black suit—a funeral suit—over a white shirt and a shiny black tie, and his wing tips were as glossy as the floor that I’d just mopped. His black hair was slicked back, and lines of exhaustion were etched into his face, like faint cracks in a smooth marble bust, making him seem older than he really was. Still, despite my shock and unease about why he was here, I thought that he’d never looked more handsome—even though I was the cause of his grief. Maybe that was a little twisted of me.