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Hell, I had all morning to work out at my gym since the place had a nursery, and I also ran five miles a day, rain or shine.
    “–And you’re a crack shot–”
    “Yeah, but come on, Ryan. We both know that there’s more to Acme than that.”
    “Of course there is.” By the way he leaned forward, I could tell that he was just warming to the subject. “I’m not claiming that it will be a cakewalk by any means. Like all our operatives, you’ll have to go through some pretty rigorous training. And yeah, sure, sometimes the work can be dangerous. But it’s also challenging. Meaningful. And certainly more fulfilling than … well, you know.”
    “Yeah, I know. More ‘fulfilling’ than being a housewife, right?”
    He searched my eyes. Had I been insulted by his implication that my current existence is brain numbing, mundane, and unrewarding? Well, heck yeah–
    Bullshit. Who was I kidding? He was talking to a woman who had just spent the morning rearranging her Tupperware drawer, then reconciling the fourth-grade’s SCRIP fund. And let’s not forget the momentous task of washing Trisha’s dirty cloth diapers. (I’m a fan of the dry pail method, but only because there’s less of a chance of a bigger mess, should it be knocked over by Lassie’s constantly wagging tail.)
    So, okay, yeah, maybe it was time to get out of my rut and kick some ass.
    But what if it got kicked instead? After all, that’s what had happened to Carl, and he was so much better prepared to be an assassin than me.
    “Look, um, Ryan, I can’t say that I’m not flattered that you’d even consider me. But – well, I guess I don’t see what it is that you see in me.”
    “Frankly, Donna, your best feature is that you’d be highly motivated.”
    Highly motivated to kill. To avenge Carl.
    And to stay alive. For Mary, Jeff, and Trisha’s sake.
    “And of course, there will be the satisfaction of knowing that you’ll be helping us take down the bastards who took out Carl.”
    Satisfaction. This, some day, might translate into the closure I so desperately needed.
    But wasn’t watching my children as they slept in their beds—all snuggled in, safe and sound–satisfaction enough?
    It would have to be, for the simple reason that my kids had already lost one parent to God and country.
    “Ryan, I … I can’t. I guess I’m not as strong as you think.”
    That brought the faintest smile to his lips. “Oh, I don’t know about that.” He tossed down a couple of twenties on the table, and stood up to leave. “Look, there’s no rush. Don’t give me an answer today. All I’m asking is that you think about it, okay?”
    I shrugged. Ryan was a confirmed bachelor, not a mommy with three kids in tow. He could afford to risk his life, whereas I couldn’t even afford next month’s mortgage payment.
    On my way out the door, I splurged on a newspaper so that I could scan the job listings while hanging Trisha’s diapers out to dry.

    One night, less than a week after that final lunch with Ryan, I heard a beep from the house’s security system noting a heat sensor breach. Before we had moved into the house, Carl had installed it, along with infrared night vision webcams. 
    At the time I thought he was being overly paranoid, and he chided me for forgetting to switch it on. After his death, I never forgot. At night, since I often couldn’t sleep anyway, I kept one eye on the computer monitor as it switched from one camera to another, looking for any motion, anything that looked out of place. 
    Sitting up in bed, that’s when I saw him: a tall figure, running from Trisha’s playhouse to the back kitchen door. He was dressed in black, his face covered in a ski mask and goggles, holding a semiautomatic rifle—
    Carl’s killer.
    And now, he wanted to kill me. Kill us.
    My gun. My God, get the gun…
    I rolled out of bed shoving the pillows vertically down the mattress in order to give the impression that someone was still sleeping there. I now