We reach another nightclub, and I eye the long line. If St. Clare goes in here, there’s no way I’ll be able to talk my way past the bouncer. Saying “Oh, yeah, hi, I won’t stay long. Only need to put a bullet in the head of the guy you just let in” would sound like I’m making shit up.

Before I can settle in for a long wait, St. Clare turns and walks into the alleyway beside it instead.

Well, fuck.

Again, this is kinda perfect for me. A quick look after him shows it’s deserted and so dark I can barely make him out down there, but that’s part of the problem.

Either he knows I’m following him, and this could be a trap, or he’s looking to get killed, and that raises concerns about his mental health.

There’s no guidebook for this, but surely you can’t kill people with mental health issues either. It has to be some kind of unspoken rule. Maybe I should check him in to therapy first and come back later?

I really should have asked Luther more questions about this guy. Lethal Poison isn’t that far away—I could pop in there and circle back in two to five business days?

Instead of going in through the back of the club, the barely visible form stops. I creep closer to the alleyway entrance and squint into the dark. It looks like he’s leaning against the wall and … looking at the sky.

Jesus. This guy has less self-preservation than I do. At least I have being desperate and pathetic as my excuse. What’s this guy’s deal?

He’s almost begging me to shoot him in the head with no witnesses.

Fuck. Okay. I just need to do it.

The drugs and cheating spouse and puppy thing. Yes. Bad. Very bad. I trust Luther, and Luther gave me his name, and really, this is nothing personal. I have no actual beef with this St. Clare guy; I just need to, you know, eat. Make rent. Stop having my sister worry so fucking much.

Okay, new plan. I will kill him, then walk away.

I’ll be at the top of my game. Ending on a high. One person debrained and one more hitman off the streets. That’s a fair trade. His life for the lives of all the others I could potentially end. St. Clare is doing Seattle a favor when you think about it.

I try to work myself through some of those child-birthing breathing exercises I’ve seen on TV, but if anything, it only makes my heart race faster.

For the love of Judge Judy, I can do this. She doesn’t take stupidity from anyone, and hesitating here, with my hand tucked under my jacket and gripping my gun, is pretty fucking stupid.

I can do it. For her.