Kelley Armstrong - Made to Be Broken

For the last half hour, I'd been rehearsing these next few minutes. Walking to his door, knocking… "Hey, Jack, sorry to bother you, but Evelyn was concerned. She seemed to think you need a place to hunker down, maybe the lodge – That's what I thought. No, that's fine. I had to go into Toronto today, so this wasn't that far out of my way. Just thought I'd check – No, I understand. Believe me, I'm not here to drag you anywhere you don't want to go. Just making the offer. So I'll be on my way. Oh, and I know you haven't been coming around – No, no, that's okay. Time to move on, for both of us. I just wanted to say thanks, and if you ever need anything…"

I still wasn't sure about the last part. I wanted to end on a civil note, but when I heard myself saying that, it sounded as quietly desperate as that blinking vacancy sign.

I stepped around a tower of beer cases – empties. Room fifteen, sixteen… eighteen must be on the end. That would be Jack's choice – easiest to escape.

As for my parting words, I shouldn't leave them so open-ended. Close the relationship door gently but firmly.

"Don't worry about me calling you up for anything, Jack. Better to cut ties completely."

Too defiant? Angry? Hurt?

Shit, I didn't want to sound hurt. Maybe I should stick with open-ended.

The last door was number eighteen, the eight sleeping on its side. I circled wide around the window, so he wouldn't see my shadow pass the drawn drapes, though I doubted Jack was sitting up at 5 a.m. watching for trouble.

I checked the end of the unit. No window or other escape route. Not that Jack would run. If he thought he'd been cornered, he'd greet his guest with a gun to the skull. I'd prefer to avoid that kind of drama so early in the morning.

I returned to the door and took one last survey of my surroundings. The only noise came from the highway.

I knocked, counted to five, and knocked again. The first would wake him. The second would confirm he really had heard a knock. I listened, heard nothing, but didn't knock again. He'd be up. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, listening as he pulled out his gun. Then making his way across the room as silently as he could with his injured foot. A peek through the curtain crack. A whispered curse when he couldn't see who was at the door. Circling around to the other side of that door, so he could watch the window at the same time. Reaching for the dead-bolt…

"It's me, Jack."

A muffled "Fuck" from exactly where I'd pictured him. The chain rattled, but when the door opened, it stopped short, the anchor still in place. The aura of calm I'd spent four hours gathering slipped away.

"Na – Dee."

I could only see a sliver illuminated by the porch light through the door crack. One dark eye. A slice of stubbled cheek. A bare chest. I pulled my gaze back up to the eye.

Jack leaned against the door frame, his gun clacking as it brushed the wall.

"What's up?" he said.

"Not much. I was just driving by and thought I'd stop in, say hi…" I lowered my voice. "What the hell do you think I'm doing here, Jack? Who else knows where you are?"

"Evelyn. Fuck."

He shifted, his hand splaying over the crack, moving not to open the door but to block that gap.

"Look," I said. "If you've got someone in there, just come outside – "

"Someone -? Fuck, no."

"Then open the damned door. I just drove four hours because Evelyn called me last night, freaking out, and I'm not going to stand on the sidewalk whispering."

"Hold on." He undid the chain, opened the door another six inches, but only moved into the gap. "Diner down the road. We'll grab coffee. Talk. Meet me in ten min – "

I slammed my palm against the door hard enough to startle him into letting go.

"I don't want coffee, Jack," I said and pushed my way past him.

I stared at the room, fighting the urge to flinch as my gaze tripped from the pizza box to the tossed beer cans to the piles of newspapers to the overflowing ashtrays. My shoulders tightened. I tried to ignore the mess, but it was like spiders creeping up my spine, making my skin itch, stopping only when I scooped up the nearest pile of papers.

"Don't – " Jack began.

"I see housekeeping wasn't included in the rent." I tried to laugh, but it came out tight. I grabbed another stack of newspapers.

"Leave it." The thump of his cast on the floor. A hand gripped my elbow. "Nadia."

"I've got it."

"That's why I said 'wait,' " he muttered. "Just – "

"I've got it. Go get dressed so we can talk."

A grumbling sigh, underlain with another oath. Then the thump of his retreat. I snuck a glance over my shoulder. It didn't look like he was wearing a walking cast, but that wasn't stopping him. A single crutch rested against the door, as if he only used it for going out. From the looks of this room, he hadn't been doing much of that.

The place wasn't dirty, just untidy. Not like Jack. Still, it wasn't as if there was a crate of empty whiskey bottles. Alcoholic binges required relinquishing control, and Jack couldn't abide that.

He dealt with stress another way, and evidence of it rested in every overflowing ashtray. Jack had almost quit, but got stuck at one cigarette a day. The only time he smoked more than one was when something was bothering him. As an ex-smoker myself, I know that urge all too well.

Dumping the ashtrays, I noticed they were all American brands. Jack smoked a very specific brand – Irish, hard to find. He only resorted to American cigarettes when the need outweighed his distaste.

I stacked a couple of crossword puzzle books, and couldn't resist thumbing through them. Most were done. Surprising. I'd never known Jack to do crosswords. But then, I'd never known him to do anything that qualified as recreational.

A noise from the bathroom. I looked up to see Jack in the doorway, surveying the room, shaking his head.

"All cleaned up," I said.

"I see that."

He scratched his jaw, wincing as he hit a fresh shaving nick. His hair glistened from a quick shower. He wore the sweatpants from earlier, but had pulled on a T-shirt, showing lean muscled arms with no scars, no tattoos, no distinguishing features – those he added only with a disguise.

When Jack had started coming to see me at the lodge, I'd always presumed he was in disguise. He hadn't been. The darkness had been disguise enough, though it also had the effect of making him look younger, leading to a stellar foot-in-mouth moment when I first saw him in the light and commented on his aging techniques… only to realize later he hadn't been using any.

Like his arms, the rest of him – the visible parts at least – bore no distinguishing features. There was little distinguishing about Jack at all. Average build, average height. He had an angular face that couldn't quite be called handsome, with lines deepening by his mouth and between his eyes, threatening to become creases. His wavy black hair was shot through with silver. Midforties, maybe creeping toward fifty.

Jack's eyes were the only feature a witness might remember, not for any unusual color or shape, but for his gaze – that piercing, unnerving way of watching, as if tracking everything around him. Even that, though, he could turn off with a blink and retreat into unadulterated ordinariness. Perfect for a hitman.

"Evelyn thinks you should lie low with me for a while, at the lodge."

"Nah."

He hobbled to the bed. I resisted the impulse to help.

"So you're fine," I said as he sat.

"Yeah."

"All right, then."

I headed for the door.

"Shouldn't have called," he said.

I turned. "What?"

"Evelyn. Bothering you. Shouldn't have."

"She's concerned."

A grunt. He scratched his chin again. The conversation, such as it was, was over. I wanted to turn and walk out, made it forty-five degrees, then stopped.