By a Thread Read Free Page B

staring at my reflection in the mirror.
    Cold gray eyes, dark hair, pale skin. I looked the same as always, except for the blood spatters on my cheek from the fight and the purplesmudges under my eyes. I wiped the blood off with a wet paper towel easily enough, but there was nothing I could do about the circles and the matching exhaustion that had crept over me these past few weeks.
    All the stares, all the whispers, all the knock-down, drag-out fights. They’d all worn me down, until now I was just going through the motions. Hell, I hadn’t even pulled out my silverstone knives tonight and permanently sliced up those bastards in the alley like I should have. Tangling with the Spider once was enough for most folks, but those morons would probably be stupid enough to make another run at me.
    I let out a frustrated sigh. Weariness was a dangerous feeling, especially for an assassin. If I didn’t do something about it, eventually I’d slip up and make a careless mistake. Then I’d wind up dead, my head served up on a silver platter to Jonah McAllister or whatever lowlife finally got the drop on me.
    Much as I hated to admit it, Finn was right. I needed a vacation—from being the Spider.
    I pushed through the double doors, stepping into the restaurant storefront. Once again, everyone froze at my appearance, as if they expected me to whip out a gun from underneath my blue work apron and start shooting. I ignored the curious, fearful, suspicious looks, went back over to the counter, grabbed my knife, and started slicing tomatoes again for the last of the day’s sandwiches.
    â€œTook you long enough,” Finn said. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost back there.”
    â€œNot exactly. I had another pairof unexpected visitors I had to entertain.”
    He raised a questioning eyebrow. “Injured or dead?”
    â€œMerely injured. What can I say? I was in a charitable mood tonight.”
    Finn arched his eyebrow a little higher at my sarcasm. Charity was one thing that assassins, even semiretired assassins like me, couldn’t afford to have too much of. Especially not these days, when every wannabe hood in Ashland wanted a piece of me.
    It took me the better part of a minute and two tomatoes to work up to my next words. Finn might be right, but I hated to let him know it. He tended to gloat about things like that.
    â€œYou know that vacation you were talking about?”
    â€œYes?” Finn asked, a sly, satisfied note creeping into his smooth voice.
    I sighed, knowing that I was beaten. “When do we leave?”

2
    Three days later, Thursday,I was cruising in a silver Aston Martin convertible, the top down and the wind whipping my hair into a hopelessly tangled mess.
    And I wasn’t alone.
    My sister, Detective Bria Coolidge, belted out beach tune after classic beach tune at the top of her lungs as she steered the car down the narrow two-lane road. Her shaggy blond hair glistened like honey in the spring sun, and the warm rays had already brought out the pleasing pink in her cheeks. Oversize sunglasses hid her blue eyes from sight, and her lips were curved up into a smile.
    â€œCome on, Gin,” Bria wheedled. “Sing along with me. I know you know the songs.”
    I pulled down my own sunglasses and looked over the tops of the black lenses at her. “Sorry,” I drawled. “Assassins don’t sing—ever.”
    Bria snorted and turnedup the radio.
    It was just us girls in the convertible, which was reluctantly on loan from Finn. My foster brother collected cars like some people did glass figurines, and this convertible was the newest addition to his prized fleet.
    â€œTry not to get blood on or in it, okay?” he’d grumbled this morning outside the Pork Pit. “In fact, don’t even think about blood within a five-foot radius of my baby. No, wait. Better make that ten feet. Would twenty feet be asking too