She hadn’t taken a new job in more than week. Hadn’t needed to.

Hutch had been the final name on her personal list, and Marcella had been working up a roster of obstacles, as she called them—men and women most likely to resist her rapid ascent—so whenever June got bored, she just went out and knocked a few off the list.

Marcella didn’t seem to mind.

Some people were matches, a bit of light and no heat. And some were furnaces, all heat but little light. And then, once in a blue moon, there was a bonfire, something so hot and bright you couldn’t stand too near without burning.

Marcella was a bonfire if ever June saw one.

Of course, even bonfires eventually went out, smothered by their own ashes. But in the meantime, June had to admire the other woman’s

ambition, and had to admit she was actually enjoying herself.

The only thing missing was Sydney’s soft laugh, her bright smile . . .

June snapped the water off, dried her hands, met her gaze in the reflection.

No. Not hers. Not her hazel eyes. Not her red hair. Not her freckles.

But she’d found herself taking this aspect—brown waves, green eyes, sharp chin—more and more often. It felt strange, holding on to one face long enough for other people to remember it.

Was it worth it? Syd had asked her that night, when she confessed to giving up her face, her life, herself. And it was, it was, but that didn’t stop June from craving the light of recognition in someone’s eyes. The comfort of being seen, being known.

She could be anyone, these days, a million outfits at her disposal, but she tried not to get too attached to any one of them. After all, people died, and when they did, their shape vanished from her closet.

(Sometimes she didn’t even know they were gone until she went looking.)

Only one shape was guaranteed to be there, and it was the one she wouldn’t wear.

June heard the door swing open, the signature click of Marcella’s heels on the marble floor. June went to find her, and passed Jonathan on his way to the balcony, a cigarette between his teeth. Marcella shrugged out of a white trench coat.

“What have you been up to?” asked June, leaning against the wall.

“Making connections,” said Marcella. She drew a folded piece of paper from her purse. “Since you have a knack for finding people—”

“I have a knack for killing people,” corrected June. “Finding them is simply a prerequisite.”

“Well, I have a job for you.” Marcella held out the slip. “Did you know that there’s someone out there killing EOs?”

“Yeah,” said June, taking the folded slip. “It’s called EON.”

Marcella persisted. “I’m talking about an EO. Someone like us, killing people like us. Which I find rather vexing.”