Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman

  Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman

  JB Lynn

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  YOU JUST KNOW it’s going to be a bad day when you’re stuck at a red light and Death pulls up behind you in a station wagon.

  I’d been using the rearview mirror to touch up my lip gloss when I spotted him. Okay, maybe he wasn’t really Death, but dressed in a black raincoat with the hood pulled up covering his face, he sure looked like he could pluck a scythe out of thin air.

  It was one of those days when I kept catching the specter of Death everywhere. I’d catch a glimpse of him in the condensation on the bathroom mirror as I stepped out of the shower, or burnt into my morning toast, or in the pile of dog shit I narrowly missed stepping in . . . or didn’t.

  Death was idling behind me, and I was kinda freaked out. Which was why, completely forgetting about the damn April showers that had been falling for three days straight, I floored my crappy, beat-up, not-gently-used Honda the second that light turned green.

  Hydroplaning, the car spun out into the intersection, with me pumping the brakes while wondering if I should have been steering into the skid or out of it, and berating myself for not having paid more attention during my high school Driver’s Ed course.

  I knew I was gonna die. I could already hear the angels singing.

  Three months before, I’d had the same feeling as another car slid out of control. I hadn’t been driving then; my sister’s idiot husband had been behind the wheel. I’d been in the backseat, singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” to my three-year-old niece Katie, trying to distract her from the argument her parents were having in the front seat. Suddenly the car swerved and squealed, and as we rolled over onto the driver’s side, I distinctly remember thinking, Dear God, please don’t let us die.

  I didn’t think that three months later. In this moment I was resigned to my fate.

  But then, miraculously, my little Honda gained traction, and I achieved a semblance of control over the vehicle. I wasn’t in the clear, though. Squinting at the rearview mirror, I could see that Death had followed me through the rain-soaked intersection.

  And I could still hear the singing of the angels, but it wasn’t a heavenly sound.

  It was loud. It was annoying.

  From the floor of the passenger seat, I snatched up the bag of crickets that I’d bought for Godzilla. They were making an unholy racket. I shook it hard. That shut the little fuckers up.

  When I first became responsible for Godzilla’s care, I tried giving him freeze-dried crickets. But that damn lizard, he’s got a discerning palate and insists on the live version, which is a pain in the ass because I hate bugs. Really hate ’em. Just looking at them gives me that awful creepy-crawly feeling, but I’d pledged to Katie that I’d take good care of the only pet she’d ever been allowed.

  There was no way of knowing whether she even knew I’d made her that promise. She’d been in a coma, a “persistent vegetative state,” as the doctors liked to call it, ever since the car accident. Her parents had died on impact, according to police. I’d walked away unharmed . . . except for the fact that I can now talk to a lizard.

  “Call me God,” he’d insisted the first time I’d thought to feed him.

  He’d never spoken to me before. I mean animals, or reptiles or amphibians, or whatever the hell he is, don’t talk. I know that. I haven’t gone totally around the bend.

  But the thing is, ever since the car accident, we can converse. And we do. A lot.

  Maybe I’ve got brain damage, or maybe it’s the emotional trauma of having my sister die and almost losing Katie, but I swear that I’ve turned into Doctor-freakin-Dolittle.

  Of course, I haven’t told anyone about my newfound ability. They’d lock me up in a funny farm like my mom. Or run a bunch of tests. Or run a bunch of tests and then lock me up. And if they did that, I wouldn’t be able to visit Katie. And she’d be left all alone there, lying in a hospital bed, with only the witches to look after her.

  My three aunts aren’t really witches. I’m not so delusional as to think they’ve got magical powers. They’re just extraordinarily evil in their own “helpfully” meddlesome way.

  So I keep the secret conversations with God to myself. To the rest of the world, it probably appears that I’m coping pretty well. I wash my clothes, bring the newspaper in, and have even gone back to work in hell (also known as an insurance company call center).

  My piddly paycheck isn’t going to make much of a dent in the pile of hospital bills that are piling up faster than a Colorado snowfall, but it’s a decent cover. It’s not like I can go around putting HITWOMAN on my tax return.

  Death, or at least the driver in the station wagon, coasted past as I turned my blinker on to signal my turn into Apple Blossom Estates. There’s no such thing as apple blossoms. Three months before, God, licking his lizard lips after chowing down on a cricket, had pointed out that even he knew that. But it sounds fancy right? Or at least like the over-promising prose of a condo developer’s advertising. It’s not. It’s just a fancy name for a brain injury rehab, or as they like to call it, a “premium care facility.”

  Parking in the visitors’ lot, I left the bag o’ bugs to their chirping (which sounded suspiciously like Madonna’s “Like a Prayer”) and headed inside. It was time to tell my boss that I was ready to kill a man.

  But you’re probably wondering how a nice girl like me got a job like this. . . .

  Chapter One

  SOMETIMES I THINK my first memory is the sound of the three witches cackling. Sometimes I think it’s tumbling—no, wait, tumbling might insinuate that I had some sort of grace or plan. I wouldn’t want to give you the wrong impression of me. I am—have been for my whole life and always will be—without an iota of grace. And planning has never been my strong suit. Okay, so sometimes I think my first memory is falling/crashing/plummeting down an entire flight of stairs and breaking my left arm when I was two.

  B
oth those memories rushed back at me. I’m guessing it was because my entire body hurt, and I could hear the three witches. I am, if you choose to believe the traitorous date imprinted on my driver’s license, thirty-two. Lying there with my body aching and my head throbbing, all I wanted was to have a good cry and take a nap. But the witches wouldn’t shut up.

  I cracked open one eye and squinted at the three women in their fifties gathered at the foot of the bed, huddled around what looked like some sort of clipboard. I didn’t recognize the bed, or the room, or the clipboard, but I did know the three women. I groaned.

  “She’s awake!” Aunt Leslie, the most emotional of my three aunts, hit a note that sliced through my skull with the precision of a Ginsu knife dicing butter. Racing around the bed, she stuck her face in my face like an inquisitive cocker spaniel. “Can you hear me, Margaret?”

  Recoiling, I tried to get away from the noxious fumes of her sickeningly sweet perfume. At least I told myself it was perfume. It could have been the residual odor of her daily joint (medical marijuana, she claimed, though she didn’t have a prescription and hadn’t seen a doctor in over a decade). Unfortunately I couldn’t figure out a way to answer her without inhaling. “I hear you.”

  For some reason those three words made Aunt Leslie burst into tears.

  “It’s a miracle!” Aunt Loretta cried, as though she was praising Jesus. “It’s a miracle! I have got to go find that doctor and share this happy news!”

  But first she had to give herself a quick once-over in her compact mirror to make sure that her lipstick wasn’t smudged and her nose wasn’t shiny. Reassured that she looked her best, she shimmied out of the room in her too-tight dress and too-high heels. Even closing in on sixty Aunt Loretta was convinced that she was giving Sophia Loren and Raquel Welch a run for their money as she rocked a sex-kitten wardrobe.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?” I asked her twin sister, Aunt Leslie, who had worked herself into full-blown sobs in record time.

  Wiping her eyes with the corner of the bed sheet, she just cried harder.

  A vise of panic tightened around my solar plexus, choking off my air supply, as I tried to figure out what was going on. Everything was so fuzzy.

  “Margaret,” Aunt Susan, the third and oldest sister, got my attention from where she waited at the foot of the bed. If Aunt Leslie is the family pothead, and Aunt Loretta is the resident nympho, Aunt Susan is the straight arrow. She might be a pain in the ass, but I know from experience that she can be counted on to make sense in the midst of chaos. “There was a car accident.”

  And it all came back. The car. The rain. The fighting in the front seat. The “Itsy Bitsy Spider.” The skid. The roll. The screeching and squealing of metal. The impact. The pain. Screaming.

  Katie.

  “Katie!” I sat straight up, and the room spun. I was weak and dizzy and nauseated. I broke into a cold sweat. The sensation reminded me of the last time I’d gone with Darlene on the tilt-a-whirl. I didn’t want to think about that. I couldn’t.

  “Katie’s alive,” Susan said.

  The assurance acted like a super-concentrated dose of Dramamine. The room stopped spinning. The desire to puke my guts up abated. Collapsing back down onto the pillow, I closed my eyes.

  “Theresa didn’t make it,” Aunt Susan said softly.

  That made Aunt Leslie cry harder.

  I kept my eyes squeezed tightly shut as I tried to convince myself this was all a dream. After my baby sister Darlene died fifteen years ago, I’d been plagued with terrible nightmares. In them, all my family members died, one by one. Maybe this was just another bad dream. Maybe my big sister Theresa was still here.

  Aunt Susan couldn’t leave me well-enough-alone with my happy delusion. “Dirk died too.”

  Aunt Leslie didn’t shed a tear for him. That’s how I knew it was all real.

  I thought about the submarine movie. It was a foreign film, without subtitles. I don’t even recall the title. All I remember was the scene when the ship is in danger of sinking. The captain makes the decision to seal off a room, or compartment, or whatever it’s called on a submarine, forfeiting the lives of the sailors trapped inside in order to keep the ship afloat.

  Even though I couldn’t understand a single word of dialogue, it was a horrifying, heart-wrenching scene. The idea of sacrificing part in order for the whole to be saved didn’t make any sense to me.

  Until my sister Darlene died. Then I understood it perfectly. In order to keep functioning, to keep my head above water, I had to shut off my emotions.

  Unwilling to deal with the loss of Theresa, I slammed the door shut on the tidal wave of pain and emotion that threatened to drown me. It was the only way to survive.

  I opened my eyes as Aunt Loretta came click-clacking back into the room on the heels of a white-coated doctor. I could see why she’d been so eager to find him. He sorta reminded me of Tom Selleck in his Magnum, P.I. heyday.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked as he pulled out one of those annoying lights doctors like to shine in your eyes.

  “Like shit.”

  “Language, Margaret!” Aunt Susan admonished.

  Did I mention that straight arrow of hers is stuck up her ass?

  “Well that’s understandable, considering . . .” He leaned in close to make his examination. His touch was cool and gentle as he tilted my chin.

  “She’s in shock,” Aunt Leslie supplied helpfully, even though no one had asked for an opinion. “Often with a concussion a patient—”

  Dr. Magnum P.I. rolled his eyes. No doubt Aunt Leslie had quoted every fact she’d ever read about a head injury to the poor man. I pitied him. Aunt Loretta rested a hand on his arm, pretending to get a better look at me, while groping his bicep muscle.

  “Let the man do his job,” I muttered.

  The doctor smiled, apparently relieved that at least someone in the family wasn’t going to hassle him. “I’m going to have to ask you ladies to step out while I examine my patient.”

  “I saw online—” Aunt Leslie said.

  “But we’re family,” Aunt Susan protested

  “Is there something wrong with her?” Aunt Loretta asked, almost hopefully. I half-expected her to press the back of her hand to her forehead and pass out.

  A nurse bustled in and hustled the witches out.

  The doctor poked and prodded me. “You’re one fortunate woman. Most adults don’t wear their seatbelts when riding in the back of a car. Yours saved your life.”

  “I normally don’t wear it.”

  “Lucky you did.”

  “I was just trying to set a good example for my niece.” I swallowed hard. A ball of misery had lodged itself in my throat. “Can I see her? Can I see my niece?”

  “As soon as we’re finished here.”

  Once he’d finished a physical examination and I’d answered a couple dozen questions for him, he told me that with the exception of some bruised ribs, and the bump on my head, I had miraculously escaped unharmed. True to his word, he instructed the nurse who had joined us to take me to see Katie. She helped me into a wheelchair and rolled me through a series of hallways, explaining that Katie was in the pediatric intensive care unit. She also told me how lucky we were that Katie had been brought to this hospital and not to another. I found it supremely irritating that everyone kept telling me how lucky I was.

  She wheeled me to Katie’s bedside and left.

  My eyes burned, but no tears fell, as I looked at her small, frail body, lost in the big bed. The top of her head was encapsulated in some kind of cast. Bruises and scratches marred her face. She was attached to a myriad of blinking and beeping medical monitors. She looked more like a horrible science experiment than my beautiful niece.

  Always pale, her skin took on an almost translucent quality beneath the harsh hospital lights. I traced the blue vein that snaked down her cheek, imagining I could infuse my life force into her with a mere touch. It was a foolish fantasy, but one I couldn’t give u
p.

  “I’m here, Katie,” I whispered. “Aunt Maggie’s here.”

  Before the accident, it scared me how much I loved this little girl. Her smile made me happy, her laughter, giddy. My heart squeezed every time she slipped her hand into mine, and contentment flooded through me when she climbed into my lap.

  I stuck my index finger into her palm, hoping that she’d reflexively grab onto me like she used to when she was a baby, but her fingers remained limp.

  “You’re going to be okay, Baby Girl. Aunt Maggie will take care of you. I promise.”

  I’m not big on promises. I don’t like making them. Maybe it’s because I’m commitment-phobic, or maybe I’m just lazy.

  Worse than making promises, though, is believing in them.

  I know this from experience. I’d made the mistake of telling my sister Marlene that her twin, Darlene, was going to be okay a long time ago. I’d paid the price, or, more accurately, she’d paid the price, ever since.

  That’s because a broken promise, no matter how well-intentioned it may be, is like a pebble in a shoe. At first it’s uncomfortable. Then it’s irritating. Finally it becomes downright painful. And if you don’t figure out a way to purge it from your shoe, or, in this case, your psyche, you can end up with a giant, raw blister than can easily infect your soul.

  At least that was the theory I came up with after I broke my promise to Marlene. I had nothing else to do all those sleepless nights when she’d drifted away. Nothing else to do but blame myself for what had happened. All because of my broken promise.

  I didn’t get to dwell on my failures as a sister for long before Aunt Susan came into the room.

  “We were looking all over for you, Margaret.” There was more rebuke than concern in her voice. There always was.

  I ignored her admonishment, too tired to come up with an excuse, too far past caring to offer an apology. “I don’t understand. I’ve barely got a scratch on me, and Katie . . . she. . . . Why didn’t the car seat protect her?”

  “There are some papers you need to sign.”

  It was my turn to roll my eyes. That was Aunt Susan, all business, all the time. “Papers?”