Finn nodded, stepped off the porch, and got into his car. Cranking the engine, he waved at me before zooming down the driveway. I kept my arm up and my features fixed into a pleasant smile until he disappeared from sight. Then I let out a quiet sigh, and my fake, happy face melted like a scoop of rocky road on a hot summer day. I hadn’t lied to Finn. I was tired—of pretending that I was okay. That I didn’t miss Owen.

That my heart wasn’t a bloody, pulpy mass of broken bits, splintered pieces, and sharp edges.

But standing outside and brooding into the evening sun wasn’t going to help anything, so I shut and locked the front door, then went upstairs to my bedroom. I hung up the garment bag containing my new dress, stripped off my clothes, and took a long, hot shower to wash away the last lingering traces of the dwarf’s blood. When that was done, I pulled on a pair of short, loose cotton pajamas patterned with blackberries and crawled into bed.

I glanced at the nightstand and the copy of What’s the Worst That Could Happen? by Donald E. Westlake that I was reading for my latest literature class over at Ashland Community College. But I didn’t feel like reading tonight, so I snapped off the light and snuggled under the soft, thin sheets, even though it was still early in the evening.

I tried to sleep, but the flickers began almost as soon as I closed my eyes. More nights than not, I didn’t dream so much as I remembered old jobs, old dangers, and old enemies I’d faced . . .

The job had gone sideways.

It was supposed to be an easy hit. Fletcher Lane, my mentor and the assassin known as the Tin Man, had taken out drug lords like Peter Delov dozens of times before. Breach the perimeter, get close to the target, and twist the knife in until he was good and dead before slipping back into the shadows once more. Simple. Clean. Easy.

But it hadn’t worked out that way at all.

I’d helped Fletcher gather intel on Delov for weeks, and I supposed him bringing me along tonight was my reward for all of that hard work. Plus, now that I was fifteen and two years into my training with him, Fletcher had said that it was finally time for me to see exactly what being an assassin really meant—and all the bloody violence that went along with it.

As if I didn’t already know all about blood and violence from living on the streets—and watching the murders of my mother and my older sister.