The bar was only ten blocks from his condo, yet the distance felt immense, stretched by an unsettling silence. The city wasn’t quiet; it was indifferent. A bus roared past, coughing exhaust. Somewhere, a dog barked, sharp and furious. The air hung thick with burnt oil and old meat from a restaurant vent, clinging like a shroud. But inside him? Nothing. Just the hollow echo of her kiss, and the chaotic threat it posed to his carefully constructed world. 

Evelyn’s kiss wasn’t impulsive; it was a calculated strike, and he’d let her dictate terms. That unnerved him. They hadn’t slept together, just that lingering kiss. Yet, it pulsed in his blood, tightened his jaw, wormed into spaces he tried to keep separate. He didn’t want her, not in any way that left him safe. What he craved, what he always craved, was control. And Evelyn didn’t just bypass that; she systematically dismantled it, piece by piece, without raising her voice or lifting a hand. 

This wasn’t new. He was perpetually drawn to women who didn’t flinch, who carried their own damage like a formidable shield. Tricia had been like that. So had Ellen, before she grew wise to his true nature. Evelyn was dangerous not merely because she was unavailable, but because she felt achingly familiar—like gazing into the polished, stark reflection of his own pathology. 

She’d kissed him as if she already knew precisely how it would end. 

The most bitter truth? He hadn’t stopped her. 

Now, he couldn’t banish her image: hair loose, breath shallow, legs cinched around him, not pleading but commanding. Not asking, but telling. Telling him exactly how she wanted it, not with heat, but with chilling certainty. It wasn’t the sexual fantasy that unsettled him; it was the insistent urge to reach beyond it. He didn’t just want her body. He wanted to peel back the layers, to understand the stark structure beneath, the discipline, what she concealed behind her silence. 

And that kind of wanting? 

That was the edge of the blade. Not lust, not intimacy. It was curiosity stripped of distance. 

Isabelle had shattered with a cacophony of noise: screaming in the trees, blood on her hands, breath torn to pieces. 

Evelyn wouldn’t scream. She’d collapse like a controlled demolition—clean, silent, and terrifyingly final. 

And for some reason, that terrified him more. 

His phone buzzed. 

Ellen. You back yet? 

He didn’t answer.  

He passed a bus shelter, assaulted by the familiar stench: piss, mouthwash, despair. 

Isabelle. 

He hadn’t saved his stepsister only for her to unravel again. If she broke this time, it wouldn’t be her hands doing the killing. 

It’d be his. 

His street was hushed. His building stood tallest on the block, well-kept, imbued with quiet dignity. The meticulous flower beds out front, trimmed and weeded by volunteer residents, felt like a sacred trust. He buzzed in. The intercom blinked once, scanned his face, and the door clicked open. Facial recognition should have unnerved him, a contract killer, but that was simply the world now. And honestly? It was convenient. 

The lobby was small and immaculate, permeated by the sharp, artificial scent of pine cleaner. Beige travertine and rosewood walls invoked an older, more polished idea of sophistication. Then the elevator doors slid open—new, sterile, soulless—a future stapled onto the bones of the past. Callan stepped inside and pressed the button for the tenth floor. 

The elevator opened with a quiet chime, a sound too polite for the late hour. Callan stepped out. The hallway was dim and carpeted, its muted pattern designed to camouflage decades of footprints. His condo, a corner unit facing west, was his preference. He could watch the sunset from inside, feel its slow creep across the windows all afternoon. He twisted the key, pushing the door inward. 

His cat, Beckett, waited silently, tail curled neatly around his paws like some small, indifferent god. His green eyes locked on Callan, judging him. For being late? Or perhaps for existing at all. 

“Miss me?” Callan muttered, toeing off his boots. 

Beckett blinked once, turned, and padded away without a sound. 

Callan liked to believe Beckett was named after Samuel Beckett, not because he liked plays, but because the cat seemed utterly convinced existence was absurd and mostly involved waiting to die. 

The place was still. No music, no Isabelle humming badly through a glass of wine. Just the low whir of the fridge and muted city sounds filtering from outside. A folded note lay on the counter, in Isabelle’s tidy, looping script: Went for a walk. Didn’t want to wake you. He read it twice, not for comprehension, but because he knew Isabelle disliked sitting still when her thoughts grew loud. Walking was her ritual of containment. 

Ellen had flown back to Miami two days ago, leaving a half-empty wine bottle and a blanket folded too neatly on the couch. She’d said goodbye in person, having little to return to, opting to stay in Callan’s condo down there. 

He walked into the kitchen, flicking on the under-cabinet lights. The condo felt tidy but lived-in, a testament to Isabelle’s influence. A row of tea tins sat beside a crooked framed watercolor of a tree she claimed was calming. It wasn’t. Callan poured a glass of water, drinking it as Beckett leapt onto the windowsill, staring into the dark, his tail swinging like a hypnotist’s watch. Callan followed his gaze. Nothing out there but streetlight and occasional flicker of movement—a car slowing at the intersection. Normal things. He set the glass down, leaning on the counter, head bowed, his breath steady but shallow. There were no bodies in this room. No blood. No threats. Just peace and quiet. 

And the indelible shape of a kiss that shouldn’t have stayed with him, but did. 

 #

The bedroom was cool and dark. Callan lay on top of the covers, one hand resting on the pillow beside him as if he’d meant to hold something and forgot why. Beckett had relocated to the foot of the bed, curled into a perfect, judgmental spiral. Sleep came slow and uneven, not a descent, but more like circling something he couldn’t look at directly. When he woke, it was still early. Light bleeding through the windows was soft and gray; the city hadn’t yet found its voice. Beckett stretched once and leapt off the bed without ceremony. Callan sat up, cracked his neck, and listened. 

The quiet clatter of a mug against the counter. 

Isabelle was back. 

He stepped out barefoot, padding into the kitchen. She leaned against the counter, oversized sweater, no makeup, eyes a little red—not from crying, just lack of sleep. She looked up when she saw him, managing half a smile. 

“Morning,” she said. 

He nodded, poured himself black coffee, and leaned on the opposite counter. “You walk far?” 

“Just the river path. Needed the air.” 

He let the statement hang, giving her space to continue. 

“Claire called,” she said. “Wants me back in Winnipeg. Says the group needs me. Or just misses me.” 

Callan sipped his coffee. “You want to go?” 

“I think… yeah. I need the distraction.” She didn’t meet his eyes, which meant it was likely true. 

He nodded once. “You’ll stay at Claire’s?” 

“Yeah. Her place has a spare room. She even offered to buy groceries. Like she’s scared I’ll fall apart without organic granola.” 

That almost made him smile. 

“You should go,” he said. 

She looked up. “You sure?” 

“You need a win. A routine. And she’s not a cult.” 

That earned a genuine laugh. 

“Thank you,” she said. “For everything.” 

Callan nodded. It remained unsaid that he owed her far more. 

His phone buzzed against the counter. 

Blocked Number. 

He let it ring, letting it die. A moment later, the voicemail alert blinked across the screen. He stared at it for a few seconds, then tapped play. 

“Hi, Callan. It’s Evelyn. I wasn’t supposed to call—I know. I… took your number from the intake form. Stupid, I know. Risky. I just didn’t know who else to talk to.” Her voice faltered. “I made a mistake. A bad one. And I can’t think clearly. I’m not asking for anything. I just… I need to see you.” A breath, unsteady. “I haven’t been sleeping. I keep hearing the fridge hum and thinking it’s someone breathing. I know that sounds crazy. It’s probably just the wine. Or the silence.” She let out a short, brittle laugh. “God, listen to me. I sound like one of my patients.” A long pause followed. “Forget it. Just… if you do call back, don’t wait too long.” 

The message ended. 

Callan stood there, thumb hovering over the screen. Across from him, Isabelle raised an eyebrow. 

“Who was that?” 

He locked the phone. Slipped it into his pocket. 

“Wrong number,” he said. 

Then he drained the rest of his coffee and stared out the window, where the city had begun to wake. 

 #

Callan was in the garage, meticulously cleaning his bicycle chain. He found solace in small chores that engaged his hands but not his mind; there was a calming rhythm to it. 

His phone buzzed again. Blocked Number. 

He stared at it for half a second, his thumb hovering, then answered without speaking. There was breathing on the other end—not shaky, not calm either. 

“Callan?” 

“I’m here.” 

A pause. Then the words came tumbling fast, as if she were trying to stay composed, but the edges were fraying. 

“I shouldn’t have called. I know. But I—I don’t know what else to do.” 

A lump formed in his throat, but he said nothing, allowing her to continue. 

“I was drunk,” she said. “Not wasted, just… stupid. After I left you, I went home and kept drinking. Because I didn’t want to feel how much I wanted to stay.” 

Callan’s eyes closed briefly. No overt emotion crossed his face, but the subtle shift in his jaw was enough. 

“I texted,” she continued. “A couple guys I’d been seeing. Not seriously. Nothing real. I don’t even know why I sent messages.” 

Silence. One beat. Then— 

“Someone came over. He brought wine. I didn’t mean to… I think I messaged more than one person, but he was the one who showed up. I didn’t want it to be anything crazy. But I think he thought…” Her breath caught. 

“Things went too far.” 

Callan sensed the direction of her confession and seized the opportunity to interject. “Stop talking.” 

She responded with a petulant intake of breath, then said, “You don’t understand.” 

Anger surged, pounding at the door of his mind. 

“I don’t talk about this shit on cell phones.” 

He hung up. 

He finished cleaning his bike chain and made his way back to the apartment. His work laptop was still in his duffel, wrapped in an old sweatshirt. He hadn’t powered it on since Miami. Callan sat on the edge of the bed, the computer balanced on his knees. Beckett watched from the dresser, tail flicking with a hunter’s patience. The boot sequence was fast. The login screen blinked to life. Username. PIN. Accepted. The dashboard loaded. A familiar interface—clinical, efficient. No warmth. Across the top, a line of red notifications blinked like silent sirens: 8 new job offers. 3 urgent. 14 internal messages. 2 flags for inactivity. He ignored them. For now. 

Intake Archive → Current Clients → Leclerc, Evelyn M. 

Her profile opened without issue. She was just a civilian, which was handy. Name. DOB. License number. The address was close enough to walk: 125th Street. There was also a field labeled “SESSION CONTEXT.” He clicked it and wrote a single sentence: Field referral initiated – voluntary engagement. 

He stared at the screen. 

Then closed it. Hard. 

The job requests could wait. So could the messages. He was more interested in a woman who’d gone from puzzle to liability in a single voicemail. 

He didn’t drive. The walk to 125th took just under twenty-five minutes, give or take the stoplights. Edmonton had cooled slightly, but the streets still hummed with late summer weight—warm asphalt, cut grass, a distant echo of traffic that never fully died. Callan didn’t rush. He circled the block once first, just to observe. The buildings here were older—pre-war, mostly bungalows on sprawling lots. Sidewalks cracked from age, but the trees still stood tall. Someone had painted over graffiti with mismatched beige, only making the original letters more obvious. He liked Edmonton better like this. Quiet. Earned dignity. 

Evelyn’s place was near the end of the block, another brick-and-stucco bungalow with ivy choking the south wall. The kind of place real estate investors acquired and ruined inside before flipping for zero profit. Her house matched her in person: classy and understated. The windows were dark. No movement. Evelyn’s car wasn’t there. 

So, he kept walking. Around the block and back the way he came. He stopped at a little bookstore that had never been open. He looked for a used copy of The Lemon Man—they didn’t have one. Back out on the street, he continued past a dog park full of empty benches. Past a couple arguing in the shadows of a patio light. 

He circled back on foot and caught sight of her vehicle turning the corner. 

A white BMW. 

She drove slow, like someone checking for tow zones. Parked half up on the curb. Killed the engine. 

She stepped out in leggings and a black hoodie—sunglasses still on, even though dusk was creeping in. Her hair was tied up, messy but deliberate. From the trunk, she pulled four orange Home Depot bags. Plastic. Overstuffed. One ripped as she grabbed it, and a long wooden handle jutted through the side. 

An axe. 

Brand new. 

She adjusted the bags, struggling slightly, and made her way toward the front entrance of the house. Right up the middle. Where everyone could see. Callan didn’t move. Just watched. There was a method to her movements, but no grace. She looked focused, but not skilled. Like someone reenacting a plan they’d only ever seen in movies. 

She vanished inside. 

Callan checked his watch. 

Then leaned against a tree across the street, hands in his jacket pockets, and waited. 

This woman watched too many movies, and Callan knew exactly how this one ended. 

It was the middle of the day. Ample foot traffic on the sidewalk made a front door entry idiotic, especially so close to Evelyn’s conspicuous Home Depot haul. 

He decided to check out the back. 

The sun was still out, but shadows had lengthened, thick and honeyed across the backyards. Callan circled the block casually, one hand in his pocket. When he reached the alley behind Evelyn’s house, he slowed, scanned. No cameras. No witnesses. The back gate was latched but not locked. He slipped through soundlessly. 

The backyard was small. Overgrown. A rusting patio table crouched beneath a vine-strangled trellis. Wind chimes clinked hollowly in the breeze. It would’ve been quaint, once. 

He pulled a pair of nitrile gloves from his pocket—habit, not paranoia—and slipped them on. 

The back door was shut, curtains drawn. He tried the handle. Unlocked. 

Then he eased the door open. 

Cool air greeted him. The hum of a fridge. The faint reek of copper. The kitchen was clean. Too clean. Like someone had wiped it down with intention, not routine. He moved with practiced caution. Through the narrow hall. Past a linen closet left ajar, sheets shoved in haphazardly and streaked with something dark. 

Then he heard it. 

Sobbing. 

Not loud, not performative. The kind of raw, private sound that didn’t expect an audience. It came from the back bedroom. He followed it. The door was ajar. The air inside was thicker, hotter. The scent of iron and bleach fought for dominance. 

Evelyn was on the floor, knees tucked under her, head in her hands. Her hoodie bunched at the small of her back. Her cries came in gasps, uneven, breathless. She didn’t hear him. Or didn’t care. 

Beyond her, the bed was stripped bare. The mattress tilted. A body, male, mid-fifties, sprawled across the floor, back bent wrong, face purple and swollen from a brutal beating. Blood soaked the carpet and bloomed beneath his skull like spilled ink. Two wine glasses on the nightstand. Home Depot bags lay torn open nearby. A tarp. A coil of nylon rope. The handsaw. 

She hadn’t started. But she’d clearly planned to. 

Callan scanned the room. But something didn’t sit right. 

The state of the man’s face was macabre; intense rage had been involved. His left wrist bent backward like it’d been stomped. 

And near the closet: a third wine glass. Lipstick mark on the rim. 

Callan’s eyes narrowed. 

There’d been someone else. 

Not only Evelyn. 

A scuff in the floorboard where a heel had dragged. A small blood trail leading away from the door. And the faintest sound, impossibly soft, from the hallway behind him. 

Callan pivoted. 

But no one was there. 

Only now, it felt like silence holding its breath. 

He turned back toward Evelyn. She still hadn’t looked up. Still hadn’t seen him. Still shaking. 

And now the question wasn’t just what had happened, but who else had been here. 

Because this wasn’t a panic kill. 

This wasn’t an accident. 

This was aftermath. 

Hugo McWard, his stepdad, had once commented during a hunting trip: Pulling the trigger is the easy part. Evelyn was about to learn that lesson. 

And now, he had a decision to make. 

Back out the way he came. Pretend he never saw it. “No one else to call,” she’d said. Now he knew why. 

Or forward, to clean up a mess he wasn’t going to get paid for.