The audience is beginning to squirm when a white boy with green hair saunters onto the stage. In his hands, he bounces a deck of cards back and forth. They thwack as they gently hit one another. He glances at the burning curtains and snaps his fingers.

The flames go out, and the curtains remain whole, with no trace of burns.

“She’s so dramatic,” he says, grinning.

The crowd roars, and he just waits there, smiling like the world will always be on his side, and with a face like his, he’s probably right.

It’s the kind of face I hate.

Except his hair is the bright, deep green of forest ferns, almost shaved on the sides, longer and flopped over on the top. The hair of someone who doesn’t give a shit.

He wears fitted slacks that crease perfectly to his polished black shoes. His bottom half could be headed for a business meeting at any one of the sky-high office buildings down the street. His top half tells a different story. He has a vest, sure, black and pinstriped with green to match his hair, but he wears no shirt underneath.

I try not to notice the way his muscles flex slightly as he passes the cards between his two hands. It’s a ridiculous thought.

He paces at center stage. “I’m going to need a volunteer for this one.”

Hands dart up. I catch my own hand in the air and drag it back down before he can notice. Memory made me do it. I don’t really want to be up there, but for a split second, I was a little girl again, sitting on the couch in our living room, watching my mom in her best red dress ask for volunteers as she twirled a top hat in her hands. I’d dart my hand up, and she’d pretend to scan the invisible audience before calling me to the stage.

Maybe I do want to be up there. But the thought of standing next to him in his crisp black clothes while I’m dressed in my faded black tee turns my stomach. I definitely don’t have Mom’s grace and style, and I might enjoy my coin tricks, but I’ve trained myself to be a killer, not a performer. I clasp my betraying hands together in my lap.

His eyes narrow as he scans the faces in front of him. He pauses the movement of the cards long enough to lift a finger in the air and do a spinning motion. The spotlights shift off the stage and into the crowd.

People groan. I wince and lift a hand to shield myself from the glare. Turning slightly, I look down and away from the light. Black, shining shoes pause in front of me.

CHAPTER 3

Shit.

I don’t look up.

He clears his throat rather loudly, and the people next to me snicker.