Marc chuckled softly. He propped his elbows on the armrests and laced his fingers across his flat stomach. He closed his eyes as if he intended to take a nap, and inexplicably, this made me intensely angry.
“You should’ve never come to Mississippi,” I told him.
“You’re right.”
“You should’ve never backed me up in that warehouse.”
“Probably not.”
“You should’ve never tried to go with me to that hellhole of a slaughter room.”
Marc opened his eyes. He crumpled the cocktail napkin and stuffed it into the empty tumbler on his tray table. “That’s where you’re wrong, Jamie. If I never tried, you wouldn’t be sitting beside me right now.”
Because I’d be with Barrett?
Or because I’d be dead?
Three times over, Nevis would’ve killed me for his own gain. But Ray would’ve killed me for more than that. I was absolutely certain of it. His single-minded devotion to Corinne—and his intense love for his unborn child—were things I couldn’t understand.
But I wanted to.
“When we get to DC,” Marc decided, “you and I should go straight downtown. We should get a room at the Hay-Adams, lock ourselves inside, and heat up the sheets for the next three days.”
“I’m not going to do that with you.”
“What are you going to do?”
I didn’t have the slightest idea. Curse Ray and all he’d taught me? That was an option.
In the meantime, routine would set me to rights. It’s what my father had taught me. And it was an ethic Ray and I had shared.
Tiffany, in all her blond buxomness, returned, sashaying down the aisle. She smiled at me with a saccharine sweetness that was probably sincere, and helped Marc stow his tray table. She said, “We’ll be in the air soon.”
As if they’d heard her, the engines revved. Our plane pushed back from the gate. As it taxied onto the runway, I gazed out the window like it was the last time I’d see Mississippi—or maybe those I’d left behind.
“Buckle up,” Marc warned me. “It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”
And Marc was right about that.
This one’s for you, Dad.
I miss you terribly.
Acknowledgments
How do you say “thank you” when your heart is so full?
I don’t know, but I want to give it a try.
While writing The Kill Sign, I lost my dad—and thirty-six hours later, I lost my grandma, too. So I want to thank my agent, Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein, for stepping in and stopping all worries about writing, when writing couldn’t be the first thing on my mind. And I want to thank my editor, Kate Miciak, and her entire team at Random House for such kind consideration. I want to thank my family—oodles of aunts and uncles and cousins on all sides—who looked after my mom, my brother, and me. And I want to thank David. David, I can never thank you enough.
I want to thank my fellow authors Susan Gee Heino and Elizabeth Heiter for lifting my spirits in the days that followed the funerals, and for helping me to remember how fun it is to be a writer. And I want to thank my critique group, the Rockville 8, for reminding me it takes time for the heart to heal. I also want to thank the lovely people who sent mementos or took the time to share sweet stories about the past, and I want to thank you, too, reader. Many readers reached out to me through email, on Facebook, and via Twitter to send messages of concern, condolence, and even notes of cheer.
Since then, I’ve found my way to my desk again. And to Jamie. And for all this and more, I thank you.
BY NICHOLE CHRISTOFF
The Kill List
The Kill Shot
The Kill Box
The Kill Sign
About the Author
NICHOLE CHRISTOFF is a writer, broadcaster, and military spouse. She credits James Thurber, Raymond Chandler, and Jane Austen with her taste in fiction. When she’s not reading or writing, she’s out in the woods with her ornery English pointer.
nicholechristoff.com
Facebook.com/NicholeChristoff
@NicChristoff
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The Kill Radius Page 28