Chapter 21
Ray, the legally-binding husband I never asked for, still dropped by once a week—reeking of factory grease and emotional constipation. He was always tired. Always collapsing on the couch with a limp “Hey babe,” before falling asleep like a corpse.
No kisses. No questions. No suspicions.
Perfect.
Because every second he snored, I was planning.
It was a Tuesday when I made the decision.
I fed the kids, cleaned vomit off the rug (again), folded laundry, reattached a Barbie head, and then—when the house finally stilled into silence—I pulled out the burning phone.
No one else knew it existed. It had been hidden in the false bottom of the toolbox in the garage, beneath a bag of rusted screws and leftover IKEA nails. Its screen glowed with a faint orange light when I powered it on. Most would mistake it for a glorified paperweight, but it was a relic from a former life.
The names inside this phone could destroy governments. Or start wars.
Tonight, I was doing both.
I scrolled through the encrypted contact list, heartbeat steady. There it was:
Fort One – Secure Line
I dialed.
The line rang. Once. Twice. Then a click.
No voice. Just static.
I whispered, “The bees were yellow and it flew backward and screamed at midnight.”
Silence… then a grunt. A breath.
“…What the hell?” a man’s voice barked, gruff and thick with disbelief. “Say that again.”
“The bees were yellow and it flew backward and screamed at midnight. It’s me.”
“You’re dead,” he growled. “Leon’s dead.”
I smiled, my voice lower. “That’s what they want you to think. But Leon trusted me with the contingency plan. I’m his girl.”
There was a long pause.
“…Bullshit.”
I chuckled. “Then tell me who killed Lou Kitsuh in China.”
“Lou—Kitsuh—” he gasped. “Leon shot him through a washing machine while chewing mint gum.”
“Exactly,” I said coldly. “Now shut up and listen. I need access to Dublin’s underground. I want eyes on Alec. He’s taking over the next shipment from the Tokyo Syndicate, and I want it to fail.”
“...You’re starting a gang war?”
“No. I’m starting a reckoning.”
His breath hitched. “Who the hell are you?”
“I told you,” I said, leaning back against the kitchen tiles, the glow from the stovetop clock blinking 12:03 a.m.
“I’m Leon’s girl.”
Joe Smith—though no one really believed that was his real name—was an Irish ex-mercenary, ex-fixer, and once my clean-up guy in Europe. When I told him I wanted information on Alec, he laughed, cursed, and promised to get back to me within a week.
I didn’t wait.
Every night, while Ray snored and the kids dreamed of candy kingdoms and singing sheep, I was on encrypted lines. I used my dormant accounts to trace old suppliers. I bought burner phones. I posed as Helena Shaw—one of my old aliases—and started paying off small-time runners for info.
And Dublin?
Dublin was messy.
The Irish-Japanese alliance I had once maintained was fragile. One wrong move, one delayed shipment, one misdelivered box, and it would fracture into blood and betrayal. Alec—so smug in his suits and ties—had taken over after my “death,” thinking the throne was his.
But he didn’t know the language of shadows. He didn’t understand how a whisper in the right ear could ignite a massacre.
I had already ordered a forged manifest swap.
If the shipment for the next meeting carried fake gold instead of weapons, the Yakuza would erupt.
And I would be watching with popcorn from afar.
Joe eventually called again.
“Package intercepted,” he said. “Shipment was a decoy. You were right—Alec is panicking. He’s blaming the Irish contacts.”
“Good,” I whispered, staring out the window while sipping my fake wine in my fake living room in my fake body.
“And girl?” Joe asked quietly. “What do I call you now?”
I smiled.
“Call me Widow.”
The next morning, Aliya spilled apple juice on her school project, Maya cried because her shoelaces snapped, and Jaya shoved spaghetti into her ears and nose. Of course, I lose my sanity…again.
Ray tried to ask if I wanted to go to his cousin’s wedding.
I said, “If I go, there will be no bride left for dessert.”
He blinked, nodded slowly, and grabbed his keys.
He was pathetic…poor Catherine.
By day, I was the stressed-out, oversized mother in red leggings and baby stains.
By night, I was Widow—the shadow walking behind Alec’s every move.
And soon? He’d fall. But not yet. Not all at once.
Slow. Surgical. Unforgiving.
By the end of the month, Ray sat me down in the living room, wearing his best serious face — which still somehow looked like a confused potato — and said, “I’ll be gone for about three months. My long-lost cousin from Alaska just found me. He owns a shark boat. You know. Like shark hunting. Or something with fish.”
I blinked. “A shark boat?”
“Yeah. Like Deadliest Catch, but with more sharks.”
I stared at him for ten full seconds.
“Okay,” I said.
He waited, possibly for a kiss goodbye. I gave him a dry smile and patted him on the shoulder like he was a UPS guy dropping off expired milk.
Good riddance.