Killer Memory

Examining himself in the bathroom mirror, Richie wiped the bloody viscera from his gun—he sometimes got sloppy now in his 70s, but he still had the skills. And that silly doctor had said it was time to retire, find a live-in helper, just because he had some specific gene. Absurd—if he was sick, how had he dispatched these two people so smoothly? Richie searched for his notebook to double-check the assignment…hmm, not in the usual pocket. But the three bodies before him—that felt right. Well, this entire kitchen was a mess. Richie rolled up his sleeves and started to clean.