How I'll Kill You

BERKLEYAn imprint of Penguin Random House LLCpenguinrandomhouse.comCopyright © 2023 by Lauren DeStefanoPenguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataNames: DeStefano, Ren, author.Title: How I’ll kill you / Ren DeStefano.Other titles: How I will kill youDescription: New York : Berkley, [2023]Identifiers: LCCN 2022026266 (print) | LCCN 2022026267 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593438305 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593438329 (ebook)Subjects: LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction) | Novels.Classification: LCC PS3604.E7644 H69 2023 (print) | LCC PS3604.E7644 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23/eng/20220702LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022026266LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022026267Cover design by Colleen ReinhartCover photo © Elisabeth Ansley / Trevillion ImagesInterior art: Map © Viktor Shumatov / ShutterstockBook design by Alison Cnockaert, adapted for ebook by Kelly BrennanThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.pid_prh_6.0_142846344_c0_r0 ContentsCoverTitle PageCopyrightDedicationEpigraphChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28Chapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Chapter 32Chapter 33Chapter 34AcknowledgmentsAbout the Author For S.T., who is nothing at all like the siblings in this book . . . and, when the time comes to let it go . . . let it go.—MARY OLIVER 1“What about that one?”My sister whispers into the phone, as though anyone but me can hear her. She’s excited, and I feel my own heart starting to race at the prospect of what’s about to come. I’ve only helped identify the mark before. I’ve never picked one for myself.I’m sitting alone in a booth at the roadside diner, cradling a lukewarm cup of black coffee. It’s Saturday and there’s a lunch rush. Forks and plates and laughter all around me. A little girl keeps turning in her booth to smile at me. She holds up the drawing she’s made on her paper place mat and I flash her a thumbs-up. She giggles and turns back to her family.“Which?” I ask. My Bluetooth headset is hidden by my hair. When I look through the window, I catch my faded reflection. Dark curls. Small-rimmed glasses with slender frames. They’re cheap readers I bought in a gas station six states back, and even though they’re the lightest corrective lenses I could find, my vision is still blurry when I look through them. Beggars can’t be choosers. We were limited to places that wouldn’t have surveillance cameras, which meant only stopping for gas in the middle of nowhere.I don’t look like myself. It took an hour to curl my wavy hair, the curling iron charged in the car’s cigarette lighter. I burned my neck twice, and I can feel the sore starting to rub against the collar of my blouse.My identical sister is watching from the silver car in the parking lot. Even with these lenses, I see everything, and so does she. No one draws a breath near us that we don’t know about.From where she’s parked, my sister watches me. Every mirror in the car is adjusted just so. I chose a seat by the only window with broken blinds.“Red jacket at the bar,” she says.I know who she means. Red Jacket has been sitting there since I ordered my first refill. He touches the straw in his half-empty glass of ice water and scrolls through his phone. It’s been a good ten minutes and he hasn’t ordered anything. I shake my head. No good. He’s waiting for someone. Probably a date. He doesn’t have a wedding band. Wives are messy but girlfriends are even messier. Worse yet—siblings. The best mark is someone who is utterly and completely alone.Maybe this diner was a bad idea. I’ve been in Rainwood for less than two days, and already I can see that it’s a family town. This place is crawling with kids. Everyone is dressed like they’re going to church.The bell rings as a new patron opens the door, and I raise my eyes over the rims of my glasses.He enters the diner shrouded in a beam of afternoon Arizona sun. For a moment I think he’s looking at me, but then I realize he’s eyeing the motorcycle in the parking lot through my window. His? No. He’s got car keys in his hand. No helmet, and his hair is neatly trimmed and combed. He keeps it short, but I can see that it would be curly if he let it go. Thick chestnut waves are just starting to form, likely soon to be cut short.He’s got a square jaw, cheeks flushed by the waxing summer heat. Muscles and a blue button-up shirt. His eyes are bright and brown, lit up like there’s a sun behind them. All of him glowing.I imagine what he will be like: He has a mom who loves him. He calls her on Sundays. He crouches down to pet dogs when they strain on the owner’s leash to sniff his shoes. He drives with the windows down and the sun beating hard on his skin, and he sings along and knows all the words. Our eyes will meet from across the room at a dinner party and he’ll wink at me before turning back to his conversation.There’s a girl somewhere out there who broke his heart. He still feels it, a little knife twisting deep in his chest when he’s reminded of her. But he’ll never let on. He won’t tell me about his past for a long, long time. After spending the day