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I truly hope I didn’t make a mistake, handing her a gun. She stares down at it like she expects it to bite her before throwing a terrified look at me. “And you have a plan for what you’re going to do?”

“Sure. I’m going to commit a little murder.” Halfway to the door, I turn around. She’s standing where I left her, still gaping at me in horror. I’m pretty sure I broke her. I want to say something to lighten the mood, so I add, “I’ll pick up some Starbucks on the way back.”

It’s easier to think strategically when I’m outside, no longer breathing the same air June breathes. Being with her has me like a car radio blasting nothing but static.

After checking the front door to make sure it’s locked, I get behind the wheel and follow my phone’s GPS to the location of Victor’s meeting.

This is what I know. This is who I am. I can almost move on autopilot, letting my body take over while driving through scenery painted by late-afternoon sunlight. I don’t register any of it, focused on my goal. Finally, I’m moving in the right direction.

But another subject keeps pulling my focus. What am I supposed to do about June? When traffic slows inexplicably, I tap the wheel with my fist. Wonderful. I’m turning into exactly the sort of person I can’t stand. Someone who thinks their personal opinion of traffic will make it move faster.

What kind of professional am I if I made it so easy for her to know I was hiding something? Being able to control my demeanor and present a neutral front is the cornerstone of staying alive and in one piece. Yet there she was, practically reading my thoughts.

She’s a writer. Observation is part of her job. No, it’s not an excuse. I’ve either gotten sloppy, or I’ve let her get too close, which is also sloppy. No matter which direction I approach this from, the song remains the same. I’m the one at fault.

My hands tighten around the wheel as the self-flagellation continues until my knuckles stand out bright white and the leather starts to creak. If all goes as planned, I’ll have the answers I’m looking for by the end of the day. The path in front of me will be wide open after that. I’ll know who put out the hit, and it will only be a matter of putting a stop to them.

Once that’s over, we can both go back to our lives. No distractions. No incessant babbling, no probing questions. Things will make sense again.

Which means no more sharing with her. She already knows too much as it is. It’s impatience with myself that makes me tap the horn again, ignoring the bitter looks from the drivers to either side of me. If they knew June, they would understand. She has this effect on people.

The worst part? I want to open up to her. I want to share. She’s like a virus that’s taken root, spreading slowly. Infecting me day by day. Yes, it’s crucial I put an end to this, which means putting an end to Victor tonight. But not until he tells me what I need to know.

I’m around a quarter of a mile from the meeting point when I come to a stop behind a dense line of trees that provides cover along with the rapidly fading daylight. The meeting is taking place at a nondescript warehouse, part of an industrial park that’s either closed for the day or closed entirely. There isn’t a car in sight except for the trio of SUVs parked in a U shape. Inside that cluster is a group of armed men with their heads on a swivel, clearly protecting the men inside the building.

“Who are you meeting with, Victor?” He’ll tell me what I need to know. He’ll tell me everything by the time the night is over. When I picture him, I remember the flames heating my back and blazing all around as I carried June over my shoulder out of that inferno. Oh yes. He’ll pay in blood.

The door to the warehouse opens, and adrenaline begins coursing through my veins. I don’t recognize the first couple of men who emerge and immediately go to their vehicles, but Victor? I would know him anywhere. His arrogant sneer tells me he feels secure. Confident. Let him. The more secure he feels, the less attention he’ll be paying as he drives home.

Soon, he pulls away, and now my entire purpose is to track him without being noticed. I fall in several car lengths behind him, matching him turn for turn. He drives a few miles an hour over the speed limit, using his signal before changing lanes. Playing it smart, blending in. There’s nothing to offer a hint of him being guarded or suspicious. He’s that sure of himself.

When he turns into the entrance to a large housing development, I fall back farther, following his faint taillights in the darkness until I spot him turning off the wide, quiet street into a driveway. As soon as he does, I park at the curb, a half dozen houses away from his. It looks like a nice house—spacious, well kept, like the others around it. Whoever he’s working for, they pay him well.

I hope it was worth his life.

The house is dark except for a single light glowing behind the front door, like he switched it on as he entered. Rather than use that door, I creep carefully around to the side of the garage, where the lock on an access door falls easy victim to my picking skills. I hold my breath when easing the door open, but no alarm sounds. Either he hasn’t armed it after entering the house, or he’s that lazy. Still, I’d think someone with his employment history would be more cautious. Unless he is too cocky for his own good.

The door leading inside sits on the other side of the car, whose fumes fill the air. It empties into a mudroom, which then leads to the kitchen. That’s where he is, his footfalls ringing out against a tile floor. He’s making himself a little something to eat.

Or is he? Is this an excuse to wait with a knife in hand? I’m careful as I creep silently through the mudroom, my pistol held at my side. He’s standing at the counter, layering ham on a roll, oblivious to my presence and even whistling softly. Though I know he’s no threat, my heart pounds in my ears as I raise the gun and lodge a bullet in the side of his knee, the sound muffled by my silencer.

He goes down with a yelp, clutching the wound while scrambling around, looking for the source. When he reaches for the gun in his waistband, I’m on top of him, pulling my arm back to bring the butt of my gun down against his head. Not enough to knock him completely unconscious, but enough to stun him into silence while I take stock of my surroundings and what I have on hand.

By the time he fully starts coming around, he’s tied to a metal chair in the garage. “Fucker,” he groans, lifting his head to stare down at the rope holding his arms to his sides and restraining him against the chair’s back.

“Don’t bother,” I warn when he tries to move his feet. His ankles are tied to the chair legs, meaning there’s no standing up and running away either. “What, you think this is the first time I’ve ever done this?” Crossing the garage, I turn on the large radio sitting on a workbench and crank up the volume to drown out what’s coming soon.

He’s still slightly dazed but coming out of it quickly, narrowing his eyes so he can focus on me. There’s recognition in his steely gaze. “You bastard. You think you’re going to get away with this?”

“Do you honestly expect me to believe you’re important enough that I would regret this somehow? Why don’t we drop the pretenses and be real with each other?” There’s a second chair waiting for me, and I lower myself into it until we’re sitting face-to-face. His lips pull back from his teeth in a snarl that does nothing to impress me.

“This isn’t going to get you anywhere,” he warns.

“You don’t think so?”

He barely has time to react when I pull my gun before firing into his other kneecap. His head snaps back, mouth wide open in preparation to scream, but I’m ready for it, cramming a rag into his mouth. His agony is enormous, glorious, profound enough to turn his face a shade of red I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. Tears roll down the sides of his face while crimson blood spurts from his fresh wound, soaking into his dark slacks, plastering the fabric to his skin.

“Now that you are thinking clearly . . .” I round his chair, taking a good look at him before backhanding him with the butt of the gun hard enough that his head snaps around. He gags behind the rag, but I’m unmoved, raising my foot to kick the knee I just shot to draw another muffled scream.