Killers of a Certain Age (Killers of a Certain Age, #1)

by Deanna Raybourn

Always choose an alias with your own initials, their mentor has told them. At some point, you will be tired or distracted or simply human and you will start to write or say your real name instead of your alias. It is far easier to correct your mistake without arousing suspicions if you have at least begun with the proper letter. Also, it means never having to change your monogram. Remember, ladies, your lives are lies now, but the fewer you tell, the simpler it is to keep them straight.

Mary Alice hasn’t depressed the plunger and the needle has broken off.

Trouble has smelled like a lot of things in my life. A job gone wrong. A one-way street I never should have turned down. A man in faded Levi’s with a smile that broke my heart half a dozen times and loved it back together again.

Basically, everyone who wanted to go hunting Nazis and didn’t have a mandate from their government got together and decided to write their own.

We only kill people who are specifically targeted by the Museum for extermination and we don’t freelance, ever. We don’t murder on our days off any more than a thoracic surgeon will cut your rib cage open for kicks. We have standards.

We stayed for four days, rousting her out of the house for spa trips and movies and a baseball game. We made her promise to keep her hairdresser’s appointments and her volunteer commitments and signed her up for pottery classes and a meal-delivery service. And then we’d gone home and gotten back to our own lives with a sense of having accomplished what we’d set out to do, like Helen was a chore on a to-do list. Check off the box marked console widow and move on to the next thing.

“Why do I care if anyone hears me? Periods are a perfectly natural phenomenon.” “I know how periods work, Natalie,” Mary Alice said, setting her teeth. “I just think maybe some of the other passengers might not want to know about your gynecological endeavors.”

“Here, Mary Alice. Drink this and I’ll see if I can find you a flashlight.” Mary Alice furrowed her brow. “Flashlight?” “To find the stick up your ass. Let me know if you need a hand getting it out,” Natalie said sweetly.

‘I am interested in justice, not the law. There is an unfortunate difference.’

Fiat justitia ruat caelum. Billie has just enough Latin to translate the motto and she smiles to herself. Let justice be done though the heavens fall.

We don’t make killers. We simply find them and point them in the right direction. We know what you are.”

“Well, that’s not going to be a problem. Akiko and I have a pact. Whichever one goes first is going to haunt the shit out of whoever is left. And remarriage is not an option. I’ve already told her if she finds a new wife, I’ll go full poltergeist.”

“I didn’t know Mr. Darcy was gay,” I said, dropping my pareo and bag next to her. “Anyone can be gay,” she advised as she turned a row. “It’s called retconning.”

“Maybe he has a geriatric kink,” I said, shaking out my napkin. “Dab a little Metamucil behind each ear and go get him, cougar.” “No, no,” Mary Alice corrected. “She’s too old to be a cougar. She’s a saber-tooth tiger.”

A book fell out, a worn paperback written by a man who was in love with guns and his own penis and probably not in that order.

“I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t help.” “No, it doesn’t,” she said. “Not even a little. It feels like a physical weight, something that somebody thrust into my arms and made me carry. I didn’t ask for this. I wish I could break pieces of it off and hand them over to other people. Let them have their turn.”

“Well, I suppose if we die tonight, I’m okay with it. I’ve had a good life, you know. I was married to Kenneth for over thirty years. Eighteen of them were really happy. That’s not so bad.” “What happened to the other twelve?” “Erectile dysfunction and his abortive attempt to breed Weimaraners.”

It’s a comfortable place, mediocrity. Never pushing oneself to the limit to see what you can take. Never staring down your fears, never reaching into yourself to find that last bit of courage.

I held the rebar in one fist, the grip just firm enough to keep it steady. Most people grasp a weapon until their knuckles turn white, but that just tires out your hand. Like playing piano or giving a good hand job, it’s all in the wrist.

He was dressed like a tourist, his T-shirt tucked into belted jeans like a sociopath.

“Good. You can be the muscle in this relationship.” “Relationship?” “Oh yeah. I figure we’ll last a few weeks trying to pretend this isn’t happening and then jack it all in to run away together and spend the rest of our lives having lots of sex and babies.” She laughs. “You’re ridiculous.” “That’s no way to talk to the future father of your children.”

l’appel du vide, the call of the void. It’s when you stand up high, staring into an abyss, and have a strong desire to throw yourself into it. It can take other forms. You might be driving and suddenly think about jerking the wheel, sending your car into oncoming traffic. Or you might be out for a hike and fantasize about hurling yourself off a cliff. It is not a suicidal impulse. In fact, it is the opposite. Psychologists say it’s actually about how much a person wants to live. They perceive a nearby threat to themselves and they think about that threat because they want so much to survive.

“I’m a woman. Guilt is our birthright. Guilt if we want to be mothers, guilt if we take the Pill instead or choose to abort. Guilt if we stay home with our kids or guilt if we work. Guilt if we sleep with a man, guilt if we say no. Guilt if we’re lucky enough to survive for no good reason. I’m so damned sick of it. I’ve never been so tired of anything in my life. I just . . . I just want to go to sleep forever.”

“I should have called him. Sweeney, I mean. I should have called him and maybe asked him out for dinner. I should have asked him to stay for breakfast. Hell, I should have at least slept with him again.” “Really? Was he that good?” She shrugged. “Average-sized dick but he really knew what to do with it. I just feel bad I dodged him. And now I won’t have the chance to let him know that he was pretty good.”

The entire plan was there in shimmering hot pink ink. “It looks like a My Little Pony murder plot,” Mary Alice said. “Jesus, is that glitter?” “I like it,” Natalie said loyally. “I find it hard to take us seriously as agents of vengeance when our plan looks like a kindergarten craft project.”

“Six-year-olds can’t be assholes,” Mary Alice says. “The fact that you think they can says a lot.” “Yeah, it says that you’ve clearly never met a six-year-old.”

God, I love men, but they are disgusting.

But I kept the lighter. I used it when I wanted to burn my bridges, torching report cards and disciplinary notes, rejection letters and pink slips.

“True leadership, Miss Webster, is not about trusting yourself. It is about trusting your team.”

“That’s why you’re angry.” “Angry? I’m not angry, Billie. Angry is when you find out the dry cleaner lost your favorite shirt. What I’m feeling is the sort of emotion you don’t even admit to your confessor.

“It’s fine, Helen.” “Is it?” “No. If this place had a woodchipper I’d feed you to it.”

I just feel so . . . stupid. My entire career, all those years, and for what? No pension. Reputation shredded.” “Hey, you killed some really deserving people. That’s got to be worth something.”

“I know you told Helen you wouldn’t take any money,” I began. “I’ve never yet killed a woman who didn’t have it coming,” he said lightly. “Don’t make me rethink that.”

The instant his hands relaxed, I jerked my head back and slammed it into his nose, breaking it in a gush of blood and cartilage. He staggered back as I got to my feet, grinning. “That can’t really be the first time a woman has faked it with you.”

Every person who identifies female and has rage. I feel you, sister. This one’s for you.