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Chapters (38)
  1. Also by Jennifer Estep
  2. Acknowledgments
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 1

The old man had compiled the information about my family’s murder for a reason. He just hadn’t told me what it was before he’d been murdered. It wasn’t his fault I wasn’t smart enough to figure it out—or find Bria. Something I wasn’t quite sure I even wanted to do. It had taken me years to put my family’s murder behind me. I didn’t know if I wanted to dig up the past again—or how Bria would react when she saw me and learned what I’d been doing all these years.

But nothing was going to be resolved tonight. Not tonight, maybe not ever. Fretting over it wouldn’t help me unravel the mysteries Fletcher Lane had left behind.

Sighing, I went over and ran my fingers over each one of the four drawings, pushing Fletcher’s crooked frame back up into its proper position. Then I turned and headed into the bathroom to wash off the day’s grease, grime, and blood.

4

4

“I’m going to kill this person,” I said in a cold voice.

“Slowly. Painfully. Really make it hurt. Really make him feel it.”

I slapped the morning edition of the Ashland Trumpet down onto the empty space beside the cash register.

There it was, on top of the B section. A story detailing the attempted robbery at the Pork Pit last night, along with a file shot of the outside of the restaurant. The headline read “Owner, cook thwart restaurant robbery” and ran all the way across the damn page in fifty-four-point type.

I drew in a breath, but the grease and spices that flavored the air from the morning’s cooking didn’t soothe me the way they usually did. I stared at the newspaper again, wondering how I’d been so sloppy as to get the Pork Pit plastered across the front of it.

Publicity was one thing I didn’t need. The very last thing I needed. I hadn’t advertised my services when I’d been a working assassin, and I certainly didn’t want to broadcast my whereabouts now that I was retired. Not that anyone had any reason to suspect that Gin Blanco, restaurant owner and part-time college student, was actually the renowned assassin the Spider. But still I worried.

Paranoia was good. It had kept me alive this long. No reason to abandon it now.

“Come on, Gin. It’s not that bad,” a deep, male voice cut into my brooding. “At least he made you out to be the hero instead of the villain. How often does that happen?”