Page 107 of Hannah and the Hitman

I sized Kevin up pretty quick. Latino. Black hair he got trimmed at the barber chain store at the mall right down from the place he picked up his no-press khakis and polo shirt. Above his lip was a mustache, although it was pretty patchy, even for a guy who I guessed to be around thirty.

As he eyed my SUV, his brain was probably churning as to why I’d want to buy a ten-year old station wagon or pickup truck.

“Kevin Cortez?”

He offered me a smile, as if we were new friends. “You found me. Looking for another vehicle?”

I walked over to a minivan that had seen better days. “Looking for something with a little extra space.”

“Growing family?”

“Bodies.”

He laughed, but it was totally fake. His gaze roved over me, suddenly warily.

“A friend of mine shared your name,” I told him.

His chest puffed up, pleased as punch to have a friend. “Oh? Who should I thank?”

“Hannah Highcliff.”

His smile slipped. “Nice girl.”

Nice girl?

“Got your phone on you?” I asked, eyeing the car, not the man.

He nodded.

I waited, then when he didn’t catch on that I wanted him to pull it out, I curled my fingers in a come here gesture.

He blinked, then pulled it from the back pocket of his pants.

“Pull up a map app,” I told him.

He looked up from the screen. “You lost?”

“I’m not lost, but I think you are.”

He frowned. “I know this area pretty well.”

“Do a search for clitoris.”

He huffed out a laugh, the kind that misogynistic pricks at bars made when they got together. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He shook his head like I was crazy and typed it in. “Can’t find it.”

“Yeah, I figured. You still can’t find a clit even with a fucking map.”

He finally caught on and was pissed. “What the fuck, dude?”

I stepped close. Real close so I could smell his cheap cologne and desperation. “Leave town. You have twenty-four hours.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “What?”

“Get out of Colorado. As far from Hannah Highcliff as possible.”