But Fletcher Lane had sent me a final gift from beyond the grave—Bria’s photo. Proof that she was still alive somewhere out there in the world. The picture was the only nice thing in the folder. The rest of it dealt with my family’s murder. Police reports, autopsy photos, and all the speculation that had followed the brutal, unexpected murder of the Snow family.

“Why did you do it, Fletcher?” I murmured. “Why leave me the information about my family? About their murder? Why the picture of Bria? Where is she? How did you find her? When were you going to tell me about her?”

Silence.

Fletcher had gone where I couldn’t question him, and he was never coming back. All I had left was this folder of gruesome information and a single picture of Bria—neither of which had helped me locate my baby sister.

But Bria’s photo hadn’t been the only surprise in the folder. There had also been a slip of paper with a name on it. Mab Monroe, written and underlined twice in Fletcher’s tight, controlled handwriting. That was all that had been on the paper. I still didn’t know why Fletcher had written her name down and slipped it inside with the rest of the information. Was Mab Monroe the Fire elemental who’d killed my mother and older sister? If so, why? Why had she done it?

Mab Monroe might be powerful, but she’d also made a lot of enemies over the years. Back when I’d still been working as the assassin the Spider, Fletcher had gotten several requests a year from folks wanting her to be eliminated.

We’d both agreed it was an impossible job, that Mab had too many people around her, that she was just too strong in her magic to be taken down quietly by a single person. But that hadn’t stopped Fletcher from compiling all the information he could on the Fire elemental, her minions, and her organization. It had always seemed to me like Fletcher Lane had some secret interest in wanting Mab Monroe dead. A desire I’d never been able to figure out—unless it had something to do with me and my family’s murder.

It was all a great big circle of speculation. I just didn’t know the answers to anything, and I’d been driving myself crazy trying to figure them out. Frustrated and disgusted once again, I threw the folder and Bria’s picture down on the coffee table and got to my feet.

My sudden movements rattled the framed drawings on the mantel. Fletcher’s drawing—the one of the pig sign over the Pork Pit—slid down. I stared at it a moment.

Then I sighed.