The Killer's New Wife by Hamel, B. (different e readers .TXT) 📕

neighborhood. The streetlights were out and we sat in heavy dark in Ewan’s car with the windows rolled down. Humidity leaked in with each gust of warm air, and Ewan stared down the block at the house with the green shutters, sitting as still as a rock in a river.

“You don’t have to come with me,” he said quietly. “Might be better if you stayed here.”

“I don’t want to be left behind,” I said. “And I feel like I need to see this through.”

Ewan nodded slightly. I could barely see him in the dark. He was a shadow sitting across from me wearing black from head to toe. He took a gun from his waistband and checked it over, making sure it was loaded, before he pushed the door open.

“Stick close and be quiet,” he said, and began to walk down the street.

I hurried to follow. The neighborhood was still and dead. Half the houses had no lights on, and we walked past bushes and hedges, sticking to the shadows. Ewan motioned for a stop when we got close to Colm’s house, and pointed out a set of motion detecting lights on the side of the house. He nodded at me, and we went the long way, along the neighborhood’s driveway, then shimmied through the bushes and came out in Colm’s back yard.

The grass was manicured. A grill sat on a small patio with several metal chairs and a big, oval table. I tried to picture people sitting out there, grilling and laughing, but couldn’t. Ewan approached the back door, tried it, but it was locked. He slipped a pick set out from his pocket and set to work on the doorknob.

It took longer than I expected and every sound set my heart racing. I felt almost dizzy when a neighbor’s dog barked and a car rolled along with its high beams on. Eventually he finished and began on the bolt, which took another few minutes. When it was done, he slipped the picks away, and quietly pulled open the door.

The kitchen was spotless if a little empty. There wasn’t much in terms of decoration or personality, but it was sparkling clean. The drainboard had dishes drying, and a single empty glass sat on the table. The floors were tile, and the countertops granite, and I guessed this was the nicest kitchen on the block. He’d clearly redone it recently.

Shame he wouldn’t enjoy it for long.

I followed close to Ewan, who crept along like a panther, lithe and ready and gorgeous. His eyes were sharp as he gestured ahead, and he stepped into the living room with the gun ready.

It was empty. A couch was against the wall on the right and a TV was mounted on the wall opposite. A fireplace looked well used, and several photos lined the mantel. I took a look and recognize some of the faces—they were guys that came around my dad sometimes. I figured they were clients. Now I realized they were, but not in the way I thought.

Ewan moved to the back hallway and I followed. I felt shaky and dizzy and I was afraid that I’d make too much noise at some point and ruin the whole thig. Ewan went first, and I followed, staying as close to him as I could without stepping on his heels. I was so sure that Colm could hear my pulse rocketing through my veins, but the house remained hushed.

The back hall led past a few doors. The first was open, and Ewan looked inside. There was a desk, a computer, and some filing cabinets. Ewan continued on, and I was tempted to go into that room to steal some of the files, or at least the computer, but I held off. We weren’t here for stealing, only for killing.

It was strange, how this all began with Ewan creeping into a house to murder someone, and now it felt like it was ending with the same thing.

We passed another door, but this one was shut. Ewan stared at me and pressed a finger to his lips. I nodded and stepped back. I put my hands over my mouth to keep myself from screaming with fear as he turned the doorknob and slowly opened the bedroom door.

It was black beyond. Curtains covered the windows. I saw vague shapes: bed, dresser, TV. Someone snored. Ewan reached for the light switch and hit it.

Two shapes resolved beneath a tangle of sheets. One was a big man going bald, hairy shoulders, squinting eyes. The other was a girl, maybe in her late twenties, skinny and naked, curled up next to the big guy. Ewan walked to the end of the bed and cursed softly.

It was Fergal and some girl.

Ewan nudged Fergal’s foot with his gun. The big guy snorted once, tried to roll over, and nearly crushed his date. The girl groaned, then blinked awake. She stared at Ewan, mouth open, like a scream was locked in her throat before she started smacking Fergal on the chest.

“What?” Fergal grunted, coming awake. “What the fuck are you doing, bitch? What the fuck—” He stopped when he saw Ewan calmly holding the gun. I remained hovering behind him, watching the whole scene with horrible fascination. The girl was naked, and her fake breasts were like metal cans on her chest. She didn’t move, couldn’t move, and Fergal scrambled to sit up. He was in nothing but boxers.

“Hello, Fergal,” Ewan said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Fergal squinted and held up his hands. “Is that Ewan?” he asked. “I can’t see well without my glasses these days.”

“Where’s your brother?” Ewan asked. “Is he home?”

“Colm?” Fergal barked a laugh. “Colm doesn’t fucking live here.”

“This is Colm’s place,” Ewan said with an edge of angry panic. “I followed you here, after breakfast at that diner—”

“He doesn’t live here,” the girl said, “this is Fergal’s house. Colm don’t live here. He just stops in sometimes. Please don’t kill me.”

Ewan didn’t even glance at her. Fergal shrugged a