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“I’m not judging, Blush. I just want to be here with you.”
“If you say so.” He turns and gestures for me to follow.
We walk up the stairs to the second floor, and I hover behind him as he unlocks the door. We enter to complete chaos. There’s a toddler shrieking and running around with a squeaky toy as a young woman sits on the couch watching him with exhausted eyes. One young man sits at the small dining table with books open and a headset on, and there’s another man in the visible kitchen stirring something on the stove, singing loudly. It sounds like opera.
Toys litter the floor while plates and cups cover the coffee table. The TV blares loudly, but still can’t drown out the child’s excited squeals.
Blush puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles, getting everyone’s attention. Everyone looks our way with shocked eyes. Even the child stops running around.
“I have company,” Blush says. “I’ll be in my room. Try to keep it down, huh?” He walks over to the child and scoops him up. “Can you be a good boy, Robbie?”
Robbie, a boy with a head of dark curls, big eyes, and rosy cheeks, nods happily. “Okay, Uncie B. Robbie be good boy.”
“Thanks.” He kisses Robbie’s forehead and sets him down.
The man in the kitchen is openly staring, his mouth hanging open. I can’t tell what he’s thinking or feeling, but I don’t have to.
“What are you looking at?” Blush asks, but there’s no bite in his tone.
“Not sure,” the guy in the kitchen says. “Aren’t you introducing us?”
“No.” Blush takes my hand and drags me down the hall to a small bedroom. After we step inside and he closes the door, he exhales. “Sorry it’s small. I gave the bigger room to my brothers since they have to share. Shelby and Robbie have one, and then I got this one.”
“You’re doing a good job, Blush. Everyone is healthy and has a safe place.”
“Yeah.” He leans against the door. “There was this guy picking on one of my brothers. Robbed him, beat him up.”
I nod. “College guy?”
Blush nods. “I handled it.”
“I heard. Didn’t fit your MO so I thought maybe it wasn’t you.”
“I don’t have an MO. I’m not a serial killer.”
I tilt my head and raise an eyebrow.
He huffs a laugh. “Okay, technically I am, but you know what I mean. I’m not like this weird, obsessive guy who has a hard-on for murdering a specific type of person.”
I continue looking at him the same way.
“Okay, fine. I’m a serial killer.”
“Yes, you are, by definition.”
“What does that make you?”
“Hit man.”
“You wouldn’t do it without the paycheck?”
“Unlikely. I mean, if I came across something bad I might, but probably not otherwise.”
“How does someone get into that kind of work?”
“Long story.”
“You came here to talk, Whisper. So talk.”
