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that devil of a man. Because I might have had to endure twenty years with him, but I get to spend the rest of my life with them.” She polished her thumb over the ring before setting her hand back in her lap. “They were worth it.”
    I smiled conventionally and waved as I left Mrs. Tucker. The thing that stuck with me most about our conversation was that I didn’t doubt what she’d said. She would go through another twenty years at the mercy of a pair of fists in exchange for her children. When I slid into the car, I was hit with a wave of depression that my whole life, I’d only loved one person like Mrs. Tucker loved her children. There’d been a single soul I’d walk through hell for.
    He was the same person who was responsible for dropping me in hell and leaving me there. The person I was seeking my own revenge on.
    Love is positively fucked up.
     

 
     

     
     
    MR. TUCKER’S FILE WAS probably the least surprising one I’d ever gone through. Since I already knew he beat his wife, the rest was easy to fill in. I know that stereotypes were generally frowned upon, but in my business, stereotypes were less about labeling and more about math. To an Eve, stereotypes were a rudimentary form of probability and statistics.
    I could study a Target’s file until my fingers were numb, but no amount of paperwork could prepare me for every situation that might arise with the Target. So I read the file, took what I learned, and applied the stereotypes I’d picked up along the way to improvise my way through an Errand. Yes, I planned. Sure, I manipulated. But I improvised just as much, if not more.
    Rob Tucker owned a string of car dealerships throughout Florida. His commercial and billboard advertising included him in every shot, with his blinding white smile, too-bronze tan, and bloated ego. Looks-wise, he was attractive for a man in his fifties, but he was aware of it . . . although he was probably inflating his looks by double. Mr. Tucker probably couldn’t pass a mirror without stopping and smiling at himself before making a douchy pistol shot.
    He wore tight polos to show off the biceps he worked out five days a week. That explained why Mrs. Tucker’s bruises went deep and hung around longer than most. He drove a Corvette—yes, a red one—played poker on Friday night with his “buds,” and played eighteen holes of golf on Saturday. On Sunday, he religiously rose early and went to church with his wife, and sometime after, he religiously struck her across the face for drying out the pork roast, or undercooking the haricot vert, or making the custard too soupy. Mrs. Tucker’s notes were detailed in a way I’d never seen. She was taking it seriously, at least five steps more serious than any of my other Clients. If she could do that, I’d step my serious scale up five steps, too.
    From the amount of time Mr. Tucker spent at gentlemen’s clubs, he could have a regular customer punch card. Though she couldn’t prove it, he’d had a handful, if not a small army, of affairs with employees, friends’ wives, prostitutes, and quite possibly a couple of neighbors.
    As stereotypes went, Mr. Tucker threw the general curve by several points.
    After spending the majority of the night perusing the file, I got up early to send Henry a quick email to let him know I needed a week to wrap up something before I could start at Callahan Industries.
    Not even two minutes after hitting send, his response pinged in my inbox:
     
    Vacation requests already? What have I gotten myself into? Have fun wrapping whatever-that-something-is up. -HC
     
    Henry didn’t have a clue what he’d gotten himself into. Not a clue. That was my first thought after reading his reply. My second was to let a smile creep out right before I hit reply.
     
    How’s it going on the other side of the world?
     
    Before I could type anything else, I rushed to slip on my heels, grab my purse, and head for the door of my hotel room. Another ping from my