Devin

 

Devin was in his kitchen. It was light outside, and when he looked at the rooster-shaped clock above the oven, that Amber insisted they had to have, it said it was six in the evening. He tried to remember what he did that day, how he got to the kitchen, but everything was a blur. Still, he didn’t really mind. He padded barefoot through the kitchen and into the living room.

 

“No, no, no. You promised you’d help with dinner. Don’t try to sneak away now.”

 

Devin froze. He recognized the voice immediately, but it couldn’t be. He turned around and swore his eyes were deceiving him.

 

It was Amber.

 

Only, it wasn’t.

 

In his head, he knew it was. He could tell by the way his heart skipped in his chest, the way he wanted to run his fingers through her hair and hold her to him, feeling her warmth on his skin. But also, she didn’t look like herself. She had long blonde hair instead of her normal auburn, and the small crook in the bridge of her nose, where she broke it playing lacrosse in high school, had been smoothed out.

 

Suddenly, they were cooking together. Amber had made homemade pasta, insisting it was worth the extra effort, and Devin looked down to see himself covered in flour, though he can’t remember how it got there.

 

“Save some for the noodles,” Amber said, poking at his abs. “Why do you always make such a mess when you’re in the kitchen?”

 

Devin pulled her, kicking and struggling, into him and rubbed his chest against her black shirt, spreading flour all over her. “Why do you always make me be in the kitchen with you?”

 

“It’s more fun when we do it together,” she replied, smiling a smile that Devin recognized, but also didn’t. A smile that reminded him of Amber, but also of someone else, someone he couldn’t pinpoint.

 

“I think what you meant to say,” Devin said, “is that it’s more fun when we do it.”

 

Amber snorted. “Oh my God, that was a terrible joke.”

 

“Who said it was a joke?” Devin reached for the collar of her shirt and pulled on it until her shoulder was exposed.

 

“I’m cooking,” she said, though she was already relenting, giving in to his advances.

 

In the next second, they were both naked, and Amber was directing Devin onto the floor. She crawled on top of him and lowered herself onto him slowly, savoring every second. Then, they were moving together, rocking as one on the floor. Amber was thrusting against him and arching her back, running an unusually long arm through her suddenly blonde hair.

 

Devin wanted to ask when she dyed it, wanted to ask when she changed, but the sensations were overwhelming him. He grabbed her hips, which seemed to have slimmed considerably since the last time he held them, lifted her, and then let her drop back onto him. They did this repeatedly until, finally, they were both shaking with pleasure on the floor.

 

Amber staid on top of him for a while until he went soft and slipped out of her. Only then did she roll off and lie on the floor next to him, her naked body cuddled into his.

 

Devin looked at the familiar, yet unfamiliar, planes of her face, the curve of her lip and her breast and her hip. “You’re beautiful, Amber.”

 

Suddenly, her face screwed up in confusion, and Devin didn’t recognize her at all. He couldn’t find his wife anywhere in the face looking back at him.

 

“I’m not Amber. I’m Cara.”

 

Devin tried to push the woman away, but when he did, she disappeared. Then, everything went black.

 

# # #

 

Cara

 

Devin kept calling out for Amber in his sleep, and Cara wished she could ask him who she was. She assumed it was the woman in the photographs spread throughout the house. Over the few days she’d been with him, tending to his injuries, she’d also found time to do a little snooping.

 

She dug through his wallet and confirmed that his name was, indeed, Devin. She also looked through some photo albums and his dresser drawers. The photos of him in a tux next to a beautiful brunette woman in a white gown told Cara that he had been married, but there didn’t seem to be any sign of a woman living in the house with him. Perhaps he was divorced?

 

These kinds of thoughts hadn’t occupied her mind when Devin was conscious. She hadn’t thought to ask him about his personal life. But now that he was unconscious, and her mind was left to wander all day, it seemed to be all she could think about.

 

Devin was a catch. Handsome enough to get any girl he wanted, although his job as a hit man could put a few women off. Cara counted herself among those women until she remembered what she had done. She wasn’t exactly in a position to judge a man for killing another man, considering she had done the same thing.

 

Devin seemed to be getting better. Cara changed his bandages twice a day, and the wounds looked like they were healing up, despite still appearing fresh and tender. But he still hadn’t woken up. Aside from the occasional mumbling of Amber’s name, he stayed asleep.

 

The evening of the third day, Cara woke from a nap on the couch, feeling like all she’d done recently was sleep and tend to Devin. She definitely needed the sleep, but it still felt like a waste of time. What if Devin’s boss wanted him to make the next hit soon? Did they know he was injured?

 

If they did know, would they come after her? Would they sell her into sex slavery like Devin said? Or if they didn’t know, would they expect him to make the hit soon, and come after Cara when he didn’t?

 

Her entire future hinged on Devin getting better.

 

That thought brought her to a sitting position on the couch, rubbing her eyes and trying to focus. Did it though? Was Devin the key part of this plan? Or, rather, was making sure the second hit got taken out the real catch?

 

Because, despite being a novice like Devin had said—a word that still offended her, though it was an apt description—Cara could take out the second guy. She knew she could. If killing a known criminal was the difference between her being free or enslaved, Cara felt absolutely confident she was up for the task.

 

She searched the kitchen counters and table for the folder, but couldn’t find it anywhere. Then she remembered Devin had taken it with him the night of the first hit, so she grabbed his keys off the counter and went out to the car.

 

It turned out that the keys weren’t necessary, as the driver’s side window had been broken out. She reached through the hole in the glass, unlocked the door, and grabbed the folder from the passenger seat. Once inside, she began to study it.

 

The file was extensive. A list of the second target’s—Brett’s—usual haunts, where he lived, the usual times he came and went, as well as a long list of all of his family members and cohorts. The file didn’t use the word “cohorts,” but Cara thought it fit well.

 

Criminals had cohorts, and according to the file, Brett was a criminal. He’d helped plot the murder of the teenage son of a Moretti family member, but there was another long list of names on his file that Cara could only assume were other victims of his. That settled it. She would have no trouble killing Brett.

 

She studied the folder for nearly an hour and then found Devin’s gun tucked away in the ripped shreds of his jeans, which were still lying next to him on the basement floor. She’d wanted to move him to the bed, but he was much too heavy, and she didn’t know whether moving him would do more harm than good.

 

So, for the entire time he’d been unconscious, he’d been laying on the threadbare carpet that covered the concrete floor of his basement. If he did wake up, he was sure to be very sore.

 

Cara pushed those thoughts aside and studied the gun. She’d never used a gun before. Honestly, she’d never even held one before. She practiced holding it, shifting it from hand to hand, getting used to the weight of it. Then, she did some Googling.

 

She learned how to turn the safety off, how to load the gun, and how best to aim. She wished she had time to practice, but she couldn’t exactly fire a round in Devin’s house, and she didn’t feel comfortable going to a gun range, or out into public at all, really.

 

She hadn’t heard anything about Daniel’s death in the papers, so she wasn’t sure if anyone had even found him yet. Though, if they had, and she ran into someone she knew out in public, it would be a pretty difficult situation to explain. No, she thought it better to lie low until she had the money from the hit and could make a break for a sunny beach somewhere.

 

A few hours later, she was hiding in Devin’s car around the corner from Brett’s house. The folder said he usually got home around nine, and it was only ten minutes after nine when she saw his car pull down his street. She checked to make sure the gun was held securely against her hip, and that her tank top—a large shirt of Devin’s she’d cut the sleeves off of—disguised the bulge, and then she hopped out of the car.

 

She’d been a runner her whole life. She ran track and cross country in high school, and throughout her marriage to Daniel, running was some of the only time she had entirely to herself. Daniel liked to believe she went running every day so she could stay tight for him, but it was really the only time she felt like she could actually breathe. So, jogging down the street felt extremely natural to her.

 

As she turned the corner onto Brett’s road, he was getting out of his car, and she saw him look at her. She tried to push her breasts out, waggle her hips slightly, but it still earned her little more than a passing glance. Brett turned away, and Cara fell.

 

She shouted as she hit the pavement, ensuring she’d capture his attention, and just as she hoped, he ran over to her, concern written across his face.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Cara laughed to herself as she began lifting herself off the ground. “Just clumsy,” she said in a high-pitched voice that straddled the line between a teenage girl and a toddler.

 

She rose to her feet and then limped slightly as she took another step.

 

“Are you hurt?” he asked, reaching for her, his hands pawing at her waist as he tried to hold her up.

 

Cara couldn’t believe how forward he was being, but she tried to remind herself it was all part of the plan, and she smiled at him.

 

“I think I have.”

 

“Do you live nearby?”

 

Cara shook her head. “I’m almost three miles from home.”

 

Brett wrapped one arm around her waist, his fingers running up and down her ribcage, playing with the small bit of her breast he could reach, and grabbed her arm and threw it over his shoulder. “Well, come inside, and I can get you something to drink, and then drive you home.”

 

He didn’t ask whether she wanted to come in, and based on the force with which he was pulling her towards his house, Cara didn’t think he was leaving her much of an option. Brett’s predatory nature was playing directly into Cara’s plan, and he had no idea.

 

“Okay,” she said, her voice breathy, her lips close to his ear.

 

She felt him shudder beside her and knew he didn’t suspect a thing. The only thing Brett was thinking about was what he would be doing to Cara once they got inside.

 

“You run a lot, don’t you?” he asked, his hand reaching even further until the pads of his finger were poking at the doughy mound of her breast.

 

“Every day,” Cara said, pushing herself closer to his side, letting him think he’d won her.

 

“I can tell. You’re very fit.”

 

Cara giggled and hated herself a little bit for how naturally it came to her. As they neared his house, though, it was hard to think about anything but what she was about to do. Her heart began pounding in her chest, hard enough that she had to remind herself she hadn’t actually been on a run.

 

They’d been under a streetlamp before, but Cara could see the halo of light ending just in front of her, and Brett’s lawn was edged with tall bushes. It was the perfect place. She could wait until they were inside, but Cara didn’t know what would happen once the front door closed behind them.

 

Brett was giving off a kind, but creepy vibe outside, but she had a feeling he was still on his best behavior. Once inside, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t jump her, and if he found the gun at her hip, Cara wasn’t sure she’d be able to fight him off.

 

Brett helped her step up the high curb onto his lawn, and a few feet later, they were perfectly hidden in the shadows behind his landscaping, and Cara knew she had to take her chance. She let her hand fall to her side, her fingertips brushing the lump of the gun beneath her shirt. Then, she slowly lifted the hem of the shirt until she could slip her hand into the waistband of her shorts and wrap her finger around the trigger.

 

Her heard was sputtering in her chest, and Cara felt certain it would give out any moment, that her blood had been replaced with adrenaline and she was overheating or combusting from the inside out. She inhaled quickly and, in a flash, slid the gun from her hip, pointed it at Brett’s temple, and pulled.