What She Lost

I hate traveling, but I go where they send me. I always do my job.

I pack only essentials—meds, a change of clothes, a reward for the trip home. Nothing too extravagant—a new mystery, a set of acrylics, or a leather bound journal— to help me relax.

I also like to watch people on the go.

Women in gauzy pastel dress and opaque pencil skirts sashay across the platform. Clouds of lavender and citrus billowing from slender forms. Heels clicking a staccato rhythm, the wheels of their luggage rattle and rumble in their wake. They rocket through the bustling space, solo and surprisingly serene, their destinations, distant and unknown. 

Men, some in t-shirts and undersized jeans, others in the sleek, dark armor of pricey European suits, weave through the crowded maze, wafting woodsy, spicy notes from weary, breathless bodies, bearing the load of battered totes and bulging bags that bump against them. Sometimes they cross the station alone, others follow a line of tiny, wailing offspring and wives that lead the way. 

An endless caravan of drifters and dreamers, off to find solace and relaxation at the end of a journey.

But not me. 

The last call for passengers blasts across the din of the station, and I pick up my slim shoulder tote to join the procession of passengers to board the train. When my ticket is scanned, I creep past the gunmetal gray sliding door, I take my aisle seat in the middle row just before I spot him.

“Excuse me, may I sit here beside you?” 

“Sure.” I slide over to the window and stash my case against my hip.

“Thank you ma’am.” A hint of cinnamon and pine catches me by surprise.

I reach for my battered paperback and let its pages fly through my fingertips until I tug out my rainbow bookmark. I feel more than see his eyes sweep up my boot-clad calf and down my pleated black mini. 

When his gaze skims my lace blouse, I turn and tilt my head. “Everything OK?”

“I’ve seen you before, but I can’t remember where.” He shifts and presses his broad shoulder against my butter-soft, inky leather jacket.

I narrow my eyes. “Maybe I have one of those faces, like people say.” 

“I’m Steven.” His palms are whisper-soft and smooth for a man his size. 

“Nice to meet you, Steven.” My lie spills out as quick and smooth as the press of the toxin on my thumb into the coarse, calloused webbing of Steven’s outstretched hand,

All it takes is a handful of seconds. His lips quiver. His trembling fingers grasp his neck, I wait. 

I slip off my gloves with care and stuff them into my pocket. I hurdle Steven’s fleshy thighs, and when his head lolls, I push Steven’s body against the seat, hit the aisle, and scamper to the rear toward my escape.  

My job is complete. 

The train chugs to a stuttering start and accelerates from the platform, a parade of faces speeds by like a film strip at the end of its reel. It’s still early, and most commuters are engrossed in thick novels or distracted with their devices to notice his body. 

I don’t regret what I do anymore, because my targets aren't blameless or innocent victims. The dossier on Steven Nelson Wilson, the billionaire CEO responsible for the sudden deaths of young people poisoned by his company’s products, justified the order to clean. His family will mourn him, but the rest of the world, not so much. 

I kill people because it’s an easy gig I do well, which leaves lots of days to read, grow my roses, and take long walks in the woods near my home. Curl up with a hardcover, sip a dirty Chai, and sink into comfort at the end of a taxing workweek.

Just as the train pulls into the station of my destination, I notice that my right wrist is bare. It’s gone.

I check my pocket and run a palm inside my boot, aware of the eyes on me as I crouch beside the pole. Nothing.  

A simple piece of jewelry, a shimmering sliver of gold adorned with delicate beads surrounding the letter enamel charm of my first initial, that means everything to me, has disappeared, just like the person who gave it to me so many years ago. 

“I know you like silver jewelry better, but I thought this’d look better against your skin.”

We lazed on a blanket under a sunny summer afternoon sky of brilliant blue that burned brighter than Jane’s beautiful smile. Her rose scent tresses filled my senses when her elegant fingers slipped the band on my wrist and made me shiver. 

“It’s almost as perfect as you.” We didn’t care about the stares when she kissed me with her honeyed full lips, or during the proposal not long after our college graduation—three years before lymphoma ended our life together, and four years before I turned to this line of work. 

I was OK for a while, going about my days and coming home to our empty condo. Then, I found myself screaming one night when I couldn’t sleep. A support group of surviving partners and parents lifted me from my nadir, and a chance meeting with one wealthy father of a son who overdosed on prescription meds led me to the life of an assassin, supported by individuals fed up with a system that lost its ability to hold the guilty accountable. 

I kill and receive a prodigious sum from anyone who asks, enough to buy 10 bracelets, but I can't replace her gift.

A veil of tears clouds my view, as I narrowly avoid a wad of gum on the platform.

Jane was the best part of me, more than a friend or a lover, my sole source of joy and comfort. We always joked about the people we might murder—difficult instructors and supervisors, bigoted neighbors, helicopter parents of the students she taught. The guilt and shame I’ve buried allows me to live out our twisted fantasies, but there's always more, and now? It's too much.

I can’t go back to find what I’ve lost, but I’m not sure how to move forward without it. Such is life.