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The swan is washing clothes.

Such a mundane little thing. I assumed a woman like Mrs. Enderby would hire a poor Ecuadorian maid to do it instead, like every other rich democrat in Rhode Island, but no.

It's an efficient, high powered washer. Something she would never buy herself. Probably an impulse purchase made by Mr. Enderby to smooth over any lingering ill-will.

I only studied Brock Enderby for five (5) minutes when he took Dean to the grocery store, hidden behind a freezer of artisanal sausages, but he seems like That Type of Guy.

The ridiculous "I bought you a diamond, please love me" brand of white guy my friends and I used to laugh at.

And privately envy.

Mr. Enderby is everything I can't be. He has retirement options. Friends in Congress.

An ex-wife he doesn't appreciate and probably never really understood.

Not that I want that. I don't want a Soulmark or a son.

I don't want...

...Melanie.

Her name sounds strange even in my head. It contains the story of an unlikely immigrant couple daring to exist in this forsaken country.

It makes her Realer than I can allow.

Mrs. Enderby folds the clothes into separate piles, blacks and brights and whites, with mechanical accuracy. I don't know where her mind is, but it isn't here.

Mrs. Enderby pulls a sock out of the stack and presses it to her nose. One of Dean's baby socks. It's pastel green. She cries again, torrentially, but quickly sobers up as if she's only allowed a certain number of tears per day. Too many and she'll go into debt.

I know debt and its shapes very intimately.

It eats a hole into my bank account exactly how cancer eats into my mother's stomach.

I chew on a granola bar and hum from my hidden perch across the street.

This is okay.

Everything is okay.

Okay.

Nova won't be back for a while, and that's a blessing. She's insanely hot (I mean, God! Just look at her), and fascinating enough to get lost in, and totally the sort of gal I would hold down if I wasn't like this and doing this, but it's so much easier to observe Melanie's ticks without Nova consuming the spotlight, hogging all the attention for herself.

This will be easy.

Easier than I anticipated.

As easy as flipping a coin.

Easyeasyeasy.

I study my swan through my laser scope and gnaw on the details of my mission like a lion with a fresh carcass.

This is ridiculous. Even more ridiculous than Mr. Enderby's glaring white privilege and his paycheck.

Why wait? Why not finish her now?

Why prolong the inevitable?

Whoever wants Mrs. Enderby dead is paying me good money for a clean job, and it doesn't get any cleaner than this.

But then I remember-

(It should be public.)

(Like when she's out and about.)

(Preferably a televised event.)

And as lovely as it would be to finish this now, pack up, and scurry the hell back to my rabbit den so I can repress any lingering memories of the dark oil coloring Melanie's tired eyes, I can't.

I just can't.

This has to be perfect.

She deserves that much at least.

We can never choose the circumstances into which we're born, and only rarely can we determine the details of our demise.

Plus, whoever wants her dead expects top-tier results, and I am a p r o f e s s i o n a l.

I am.

I swear to God I am.

Melanie hefts the laundry basket onto her hip like a fifteenth-century milkmaid and trods into her desecrated bedroom, one foot in front of the other, like she may never walk again. Dean's baby sock is tucked into her back pocket like a leaf.

A momento.

Yet another linty cotton-soft memory, faded with age.

(But never when her son is near.)

(If Dean is nearby don't shoot.)

Don't worry, Melanie, I softly think to her across the distance. This will all be over soon.

Mrs. Enderby, of course, doesn't hear me, doesn't know I'm watching, doesn't know there's a bounty on her head. I like to think her tears trickle to a stop from comfort, not exhaustion.

Easy. Okay. Easy.

I briefly fancy myself a twisted guardian angel, but I know deep down I'm just another merchant of death.

No different from any other soul-snatching grim reaper eager to make a quick buck.

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