The Web always collects insurance from its members if they decide to leave. And by that, I mean a murder. Something they can hold against us for the rest of our lives, in case they need a favor, or in case we want to talk.
All I have to do is kill one ugly soul, and I’m free.
Mother looks at me, her granny-apple eyes full of concern. “Just make sure it doesn’t happen in the bedroom. No one blinks an eye when an old man grabs his chest and collapses on the sidewalk, but the bedroom will raise suspicion.”
Again, she mentions marrying me off to an old man, not knowing how my private conversation with Miss May, the owner of Wife for Hire, actually went.
Mother had filled out the application for me, but at my sit-down with the dark-haired maven, which she was forbidden from attending, I had a mini rebellion.
It was instigated by Miss May herself, who knew what mothers like mine were like. Not the killing part. The overbearing, controlling, insistent side she’s not afraid to show, because, to her, it means she’s a good mother.
I still remember the deadpan look she gave me when she asked, “You don’t really want to marry a seventy-year-old, do you?”
Admittedly, my bold move could cause problems. People aren’t as suspicious when a rich, gluttonous man suffers a heart attack as they are when it happens to a man in his thirties. But a nineteen-year-old is far less likely to want to kill a thirty-year-old husband than one who’s an old geezer, so in my head, I’d reasoned that people won’t be as suspicious.
I’ll have to forgo poison and settle on an accident, which shouldn’t be too hard. The Sisters can help with it, providing me with an opportunity and an alibi.
Mother’s phone pings, and she begins cackling manically, which can only mean one thing.
One of our Sisters just got away with murder.
“Is Daphne finally blooded?” I ask.
She shakes her head from side to side. “It’s Lily.”
My brow knits in confusion. “But she’s not due to off hers for at least three months.”
“Something must have happened to move up the timeline.”
“Did she go with bleeding hearts?”
“Wheelchair malfunction,” she says, her eyes locked on the screen. “Sent him straight into the pool.”
“Can we be sure it was her doing?”
“Her handler knew it was coming and has provided proof.”
This should be joyous news, but it only makes me feel the pressure of my own upcoming assignment.
“Maybe an accident is better than poison?” I say, hoping to soften her to the idea.
Mother snorts derisively. “And end up like Anne?”
Anne wanted to end her marriage in style, so she ran over her husband with a car provided by the sisters. It was supposed to look like a hit-and-run done by a confused drunk. Unfortunately for her, she felt smug and went to rub it into his face after she backed over him a few times.
She didn’t expect that he’d reach up and claw her face.
Because she was so sloppy, the Sisters had to dispose of him in a way that would ensure he’d never be found.
Which has raised suspicion.
Now, she can’t get a death certificate, has no access to her inheritance, and has suspicious family members breathing down her neck.
Not that she has anything to worry about. Without a body or evidence, there’s precious little the police can do.
And the sisters are thorough.
Mother goes to my closet and pulls out a floral patterned sundress. “Put this on.”
