2

2

To say that my mother and I had a difficult relationship would be the understatement of the millennium. Obviously, a big part of that had to do with the whole ‘spending almost half of my life in jail for the murder of my dipshit father’ thing, but if I were completely honest it went much deeper than just that.

I admit I resented her for being with my father in the first place. They were a case of that age-old high school romance story. You know the one. Two horny teenagers get drunk at Grad Night Disneyland and get kicked out of the park for having sex on the It’s A Small World ride, nine months later: ta-da! I’m pretty sure the fact I know so many specific details about my conception is a big part of the reason why I’m so fucked up. Well, that and just the simple fact I was conceived on possibly the most annoying theme park attraction in the entire world . . .

So, suffice to say, were it not for surprise li’l me, my mother probably would not have ended up with my father in the first place. She would have gone to college, and they would have broken up in their first year when she found out he cheated on her, then she would have eventually met and fallen actually in love with a nice, stable gentleman—perhaps a lawyer or a stockbroker—and they would have lived a long, happy life together with a daughter who wasn’t a literal sociopath.

While neither of us either verbally acknowledged this presumed truth, it was there unspoken, hanging over our dysfunctional little family for our entire relationship, before and after the murder of my father.

Of course, I’m not exactly one to talk about unhealthy romantic relationships. Almost every man I’ve ever slept with I’ve killed. Mostly for my pleasure before I was recruited into T.H.E.M.’s ranks, but sometimes on the job, too. The only real relationship I’ve ever had was with an assassin named Jason, but I caught him cheating on me with another T.H.E.M. operative. I had frequently suspected Mary Sue of having been that ‘other woman’, though she insisted she and Jason were just colleagues. Whatever. It’s not like I had delusions of marrying the son-of-a-cockroach-breeder and having kids with him or anything. Yuck. No thank you.

And yes, Jason is the main reason why I hate assassins so much, though Mary Sue certainly added a few items onto my list of assassin hating . . .

Anyway, I rarely visited my mother while she was in prison. Basically, I only visited before going on assignment, so once or twice a year, even though I still live in Los Angeles. I guess I stayed away out of guilt for being literally the world’s worst daughter, but now she’s gone that guilt has piled up a thousand times worse.

The one exception to that rule was my trip to Tennessee. The mission was so rushed and last minute, I decided I would put off visiting her until after I returned. I usually promised her when I was leaving I would pay her a visit when I was back in town again, but we both always knew that was a lie. But seeing as I had skipped this particular departing visit, I actually did have every intention of visiting her when I got back from Tennessee. Then . . .

Seriously, Universe, fuck you.

Of course, mother didn’t know what it was I really did for a living. She believed I worked as an office assistant for a high-profile law firm that often sent me out-of-state for their more prominent cases. This deception caused me absolutely no loss of sleep because I knew perfectly well the truth would destroy her. Zeke knew about the situation with my mother, and this was one of the many ways he used to keep me in line over the years. Whenever I pushed his patience too far, he would silkily remind me he could let my mother know how I make my money. Between that and the threat of my contract being disavowed and me being handed over to the Feds, it was enough to make me stay in line.

I have to take a Lyft to the funeral because, once again, my car has been confiscated by the L.A.P.D. Technically speaking, I’m not supposed to drive at all as I have something of a ‘special condition’. The doctors don’t really have a term for the condition, but in a layman’s nutshell, I’m essentially allergic to radar. It doesn’t make me start choking or break into hives or anything like that, just fall into a seizure. So, if I’m driving along and some dipshit po-po tries to clock me with his radar gun, it could be a very bad situation. I’ve tried on multiple occasions to convince various judges that they should just revoke the use of radar guns in Los Angeles County but, of course, they never took my advice. Idiots.

Naturally, the fact that I’m not supposed to drive has never stopped me from doing so—hello . . . serial killer here . . . breaking the law is literally in my job description—though it does mean I usually try to steer clear of highways since the highway patrol is more prone to be shooting off their radars. However, with my most recent mode of transport in government possession—and she was a beautiful red —I am forced to rely on modern ride-sharing services. Ugh, sitting in close quarters with complete strangers for extended periods of time and not being able to kill them is definitely not my idea of a good time.

The driver drops me off at the cemetery, and as I step out of the car, I take a look at the beautiful sunny day and curse the universe. By all rights, this should be a miserable, stormy, rainy day to match the absolutely shitty mood I am in. I mean, that’s always how it is in the movies, isn’t it? But no. Not for Sarah Killian. The universe has to mock my grief and taunt me with an absolutely enjoyable day to wallow in my misery.

Seeing as my mother was one of hundreds of casualties from the bomb that destroyed L.A.C.P. a week ago, the funeral is not an intimate affair but a mass funeral for all the victims. Well . . . all of the prisoner victims. The county P.R. nuts decided it would be better to have a separate funeral for the guards and staff of the prison. Heaven forbid the families of the good upstanding citizens be forced to grieve with the families of murderers, rapists, thieves, and drug dealers.

I can’t quite decide if I’d feel better or worse if it was a private ceremony just for my mother. On the one hand, it feels like a slap in the face that my mother gets no more recognition at her funeral than just being another in a list of names. On the other hand, at a smaller event I would be far more the center of attention as mother’s only living relative. Being the center of attention is not something I ever aspire for. At least in this setting, I can just dissolve into the sea of mourners and no one expects me to say anything or feels required to bestow their moderately sincere condolences upon me.

All the remains at the prison were too decimated and mixed up for any possibility of identification so there are no caskets or urns—only a wall containing happy smiling pictures, mostly from high school yearbooks since those were the best days of many of the L.A.C.P.’s residents’ lives. My mother’s photo, however, is one of her holding me on the day I was born. Stab me in the motherfucking damn heart, why don’t you?

A preacher stands up at the podium and says some words, but I can’t hear them. Not due to a fault in the amplification system or anything like that. I just can’t stand to listen to him. What does this holy man know about my mother? He probably served at the prison to offer spiritual guidance to those inmates who wanted it, but my mother was not particularly spiritual, so I doubt she would have had more than a passing interaction with this man, so what good will his words do for me? How could he possibly have anything to say that will make me feel better when he has absolutely no knowledge of my mother or our . . . complicated relationship?

The prison warden, who was conveniently not present on the day of the bombing, and the police commissioner follow the preacher and make speeches also, but their words are just as meaningless to me as the holy man’s.

As they ramble on, I wonder why I even came today. I look at the sea of faces surrounding me and I know none of these people, and I can just about guarantee that none of them knew my mother. Had I stayed at home, no one would have ever been the wiser.

Except me. I would have known, and I suspect that had I stayed home the guilt would have haunted me for the rest of my miserable life. I was a shitty enough daughter while she was alive, the least I can do for her is try to be a slightly better daughter to her in death.

When the ceremony is finally blessedly finished, many of the other families linger around to socialize and wallow in shared grief. It goes without saying that this is absolutely not my kinda scene, so I skip out before anyone can try to talk to me or hug me. I might just vomit.

I have a meeting with Zeke I have to get to anyway. You know, the meeting where I get to find out whether I’ve been fired and should start planning to spend the rest of my life in a federal prison or not. Yay. Just another nail in the coffin that is this shit-pile of a day.

I call another Lyft and within ten minutes I’m on the way to Chatsworth. I instruct the driver to avoid the freeways, which he is happy to do, as that will probably almost double if not triple his fare. Other than that brief interaction, the driver gracefully takes my cue of not wanting to talk, and we spend the rest of the ride in comfortably awkward silence.