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return. Her cheeks were pu ff y, and her eyes had become slits.
    I frowned again and recited the conversation for her. “All I said was, ‘I’ll have a co ff ee.’ ‘What size?’ she says. ‘A regular,’ I said. ‘We have grande, venti, solo, doppio, short, and tall,’ she says. ‘Four hundred ninety calories,’ you say. It’s a flippin’ two-inch square!”
    Kathleen gripped the sides of the table. “Stop it!” she said. “You’re going to make me pee!”
    When her last bubble of laughter died down, she told me it felt good to laugh after two hours with the kids. I understood what she meant. Bad as her life had been with Ken, she still managed to feel guilty that she had it so good by comparison.
    I said, “I hate to end the party, but I need to ask you a few questions about Ken Chapman.”
    She frowned. “Just when we were having such a good time.”
    “I know.”
    “I really hate to talk about it,” she said.
    “I know.”
    She looked at me and sighed. “Okay, Homeland. You put in your time. What would you like to know?”
    For the better part of an hour, we talked about her marriage to Ken Chapman. It was hard on her, and by the time she dropped me o ff at my hotel, I could see she was emotionally drained. I didn’t ask her to join me for a nightcap, and she didn’t o ff er to, though she asked if I wanted to get together the next day.
    “Tomorrow’s Valentine’s, you know,” she said.
    I told her I had to meet someone, which was true. In fact, I said, I had to pack my overnight bag and head back to the airport that very night—also true. She nodded in an absentminded way as though this were something she’d heard before, something she expected me to say.
    What I didn’t tell her: I had contracted to kill someone the next morning. What I did tell her: “I’m flying back tomorrow after my meeting to take you someplace special for dinner.” When I said that, her face lit up like a kid at Christmas and she gave me a big hug.
    Then I said, “I’ll call you at work tomorrow just before noon and we can work out the details.”
    An hour and change later, I was settling into my seat on the Citation. Ten minutes after that, I was sleeping soundly. But just before falling asleep, I thought Kathleen Gray had to be the nicest human being I’d ever met.

 
     
     
    CHAPTER 6
     
    M onica Childers didn’t want to die.
    It was just past daybreak, Valentine’s Day, and we were north of Jacksonville, Florida, at the Amelia Island Plantation resort. Callie had positioned herself near the ninth tee box, where the main road intersected the cart path.
    Monica was no terrorist or threat to national security, but I had already agreed to kill her, so here we were. These freelance contracts meant money in my pocket. Although it’s noble to pretend my fulltime job is killing suspected terrorists for the government, they pay me with resources, not cash. Of course, the resources are supposed to be used exclusively for monitoring or tracking terrorists. But Darwin, my government facilitator, knows full well how I earn my living. He rarely complains because killing civilians during the down times keeps me focused and sharp. At least that’s what he believes.
    Darwin provides me with unparalleled clout. A simple call from him and doors get opened, legal procedures become irrelevant, and no turns magically to yes. While I’m very good with my own crime scenes, there’s always a random element to taking lives. On the rare occasions when something goes wrong, Darwin can be counted on to dispatch a crew to remove a body, clean a crime scene, or cover my tracks. He even controls a secret branch of the government that provides me and my crew with body doubles. Of course, the body doubles don’t know they’re working for us, but they remain safe until we need them. Darwin sees to that. He has a group of people who secretly protect them. I myself protected one of the body doubles the first year after leaving the