Page 13 of Trigger Happy Ending

My jaw clenches. Fucking cyber nerds.

“Forensics were on me instantly, questioning me about why I was attempting to look at a classified file related to a dead operative.”

I flinch at his description of my mother.

“Sorry.” Smyth squints. “Poor choice of words.”

I gesture for him to continue.

“Anything related to your mom is tripped with alarms. Which means it’s either still an active mission or they don’t want anyone knowing what happened. I’d say whatever assignment she was on is what got her killed.”

“Obviously.”

“In saying that, though, there was something …” he says, hesitant.

“What?”

“Before the screen froze and melted down, I was able to see a few lines of a file.”

My heart starts pounding. Please be something of use. Please.

“There was a reference to another person. Someone she was involved with in some capacity.”

My stomach knots. It would be unlike my mom to work closely with someone … Unless she was grooming them to become a source or an asset.

“Did you get a name?”

“The name’s redacted completely.”

“And you think this person is connected to her murder?”

“I can’t say for sure. But if I’m a betting man? I’d say it’s likely.” Smyth pauses, takes a breath. “She was one of the best, Raine. She’s the stuff of legends from what I’ve learned about her. And from what I know about the Agency? They’ve been known to kill assets when it serves them.”

My throat tightens as I’m transported back to the worst day of my life.

I was fourteen when I found her sprawled on the floor of our apartment, lifeless. One shot to her head, execution style. From day one, the Agency was cagey about it. They fed me bullshit about it being a past enemy. “Likely a revenge hit,” they told me.

For years, I believed that horseshit.

Until I became an assassin myself. Indoctrinated into the Agency, trained to kill and set free to do my worst. Experience taught me that Mom must have known her killer. She was too good. Too careful. She wouldn’t let anyone through the door unless she trusted them.

And she sure as hell wouldn’t let someone shoot her in the head.

Which means one thing. She knew—and trusted—her killer.

And I’m convinced the Agency knows too. They’ve always known. Hell, I think they could be responsible for her death which is a real mindfuck. But it makes sense to keep the truth from me. It keeps me tethered to them, and more importantly, keeps me obedient.

“I’m sorry I don’t have more to tell you.”

I nod once.

“Maybe go through your mom’s things again?” Smyth asks. “There could be something you missed in her old files, letters …”

It’s insulting that Smyth thinks I haven’t gone over all that I can. But what he doesn’t know is that the Agency cleared out our apartment before I could save anything. They seized everything in the name of the investigation. Papers, files, laptops, phones. Eventually, I was given a shoebox with a couple of old photos in it. The only other part of her I have left is a diamond snowflake necklace she gifted me on my thirteenth birthday.

I absentmindedly touch it between my fingers.

It’s the last present I ever received. Proof I once had someone who loved me. A snowflake no bigger than my pinky nail, each branch tipped with a pinprick diamond. Mom told me no two snowflakes are the same, just like we are.