Death of an Assassin (Saint Roch City Book 1) Read Free Page A

slipped my payment under the door last night, though, so I’m not worried that it has to do with a past kill.
    I pull my hood up higher and press my sunglasses tighter to my face. My hair is a particular shade of color I like to think of as baby-poo brown, and I made sure to grab the dirtiest pair of sweatpants I could from the sack of clothes I keep in my bathroom closet.
    It’s one of the downsides of being a siren. You have to actively make yourself ugly to keep people from killing themselves to get to you. Not exactly what most nineteen-year-olds have to tolerate. I almost vomit as the smell of the fox urine I purchased at a hunting store on the North Side of the city wafts up to meet my nose, despite having sprayed it on my ankles. Sometimes I overdo it, but I need to make sure no one gets the urge to jump me. Passing a news kiosk on the street of the bagel store, I spot a copy of
The Spire
, the local newspaper detailing the result of my feminine wiles.
    Max Spencer. Forty-two. Traveling salesman divorcee with two kids plummets to his death. Cops assume suicide.
    I know I should feel guilty. Normal girls wouldn’t be standing on their balcony in the middle of the frosty winter night. Nearly nude. And leaning over a railing.
    At least my hair wasn’t red by then. Maybe he would’ve made a running leap and landed in the street instead of the curb. Could’ve hit a car or something.
    But there are still two little kids that will never see their father again, and I’m fairly certain I’m to blame. I can’t say that I actually feel the guilt. I know that, in a normal person, it would be right there, gnawing just beneath the surface. A normal person might confess. Or try to make amends. Maybe go out and save a life, or even end her own. It might save a few more innocent souls if I ran a few miles east and pitched myself into the Swift to be torn apart by the things living beneath its waves.
    But I’m not normal. And, as I open up the door of the bagel shop and the hipster sitting nearest the door at a raised counter turns his nose up at me, I’m reminded that I don’t care. No matter how hard I try to feel, I can’t.
    I sidle into the booth across from my broker and notice that he’s shaved his goatee off since I saw him last. He’s wearing a rather nice sweater vest over a button-down shirt, giving him the appearance of the most disturbing children’s television show host ever. He sips his coffee as he looks up at me.
    “Layla, darling, you don’t need to get yourself all dolled up for me.” He rolls his eyes and slides a thick manila envelope across the table. Thicker than I’ve ever received.
    I take off my glasses and glare at his sarcasm, and he glares right back. At the moment, I’m agitated that Malcolm is so flamboyantly gay. It was a requirement when I found my broker, actually. The first one to attempt it was an ex-mafia boss who went into business for himself. He landed on his own letter opener as he threw himself over his desk at me. After that, I tried a woman, who assured me over the phone that it wouldn’t be a problem. She leapt in front of the subway train at our first meet. She must’ve been bicurious at minimum.
    Malcolm and I met up at the Fireman’s Hose. It was a club two blocks away from the Crux and had nothing to do with firemen, nor the tools of their trade.
    I put my glasses back on, sure that the sickly yellow shade I’ve given my eyes will not be enough to ward off a passerby college student home on winter break. Gripping the envelope, I mutter to Malcolm as gruffly as I can.
    “Why the personal treatment?”
    He smirks at my guttural attempt and says, “Well, this is a special one and needs to be handled very carefully. It’s a two-for-one deal and―”
    “I don’t do two-for-ones. I can only focus on one person at a time.”
    Malcolm waves his hands at me. Pishposh. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You handled that tall, muscular fellow last night,