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My father only visited once during my time with The Cleaner. He wanted to know why the capable young man he’d forged like a blade had given up his opportunity to excel as an assassin.
He expected me to rant about my sisters, or the girls he had exploited, or even the barbaric nature of the graduation ceremony. When I calmly explained that I’d grown out of the need to earn his favor, he became livid.
What followed was a heated monologue about how I had turned his youngest son into a vegetable for nothing. Obviously, it was an exaggeration, as I believed my youngest sister over his lies. He asked if I wanted to waste my life cleaning up crime scenes, and I frustrated him with my positive reply.
He left, telling me he was ashamed to be my father. Perhaps it was supposed to sting, but I couldn’t get those girls out of mymind. All I cared about was destroying him and his organization. Over the next several months, I worked diligently with The Cleaner until he promoted me to the role of team leader.
I ran my own RV and had the freedom to move across town. I met other members of the firm, ranging from maintenance crews to experienced assassins. I helped cover up mistakes that could get operatives killed, made contacts, and most importantly, learned secrets.
Over the rest of the year, I discovered several facts about the firm, starting with the way it treated its assassins as disposable. My role included covering up deaths of operatives who were killed during their missions, and disposing of those who abandoned their stations. I discovered that each of us was embedded with multiple trackers, so we could never escape.
I befriended many disgruntled employees who felt they were trapped, including a woman who worked on the tracking team, who helped me remove the devices embedded beneath my flesh in exchange for returning the favor. I made sure to keep them on my person at all times, until the moment was right for us to make our move.
Fan questions:
Thanks to your relentless support, our book club will soon be a reality. From next week, all 18 inmates of death row will congregate in the rec room on Wednesdays to discuss a work of literature. The warden suggests the Bible, as that’s the only book the prison holds in any measure of quantity. If possible, I would like to add twenty copies of DickensThe Haunted Man and The Ghost's Bargainto my wishlist, so the guards attending may enjoy some culture.
I didn’t think I was capable of romantic love until recently. The woman who holds my heart is as strong and fierce as she is beautiful. During the day, I picture her hard at work writing her book and at night, she haunts my dreams. She embraces my darkness and accepts my corrupted soul. That woman, dear fans, is the one reading out these words.
Love,
Xero
FIFTY-TWO
AMETHYST
I stare up into the dark abyss of Xero’s hood, my heart hammering so violently that it threatens to break free. He towers over me, his chest rising and falling with even breaths.
Clouds of condensation escape his mask. How could I have missed this obvious sign of life?
The moon emerges from behind the clouds and reflects on his hooded cloak, turning its edges silver. Up close, it’s actually a long leather coat with a hood. He wears a mask of some sort that clings tightly to the contours of his angular face. Instead of those cold blue eyes I’ve come to love, he wears lenses with black sclera.
My breath quickens. The weight of my predicament crushes my chest. Xero isn’t just alive and hiding out in my house. He’s here because I failed.
The elation of his survival fades, leaving a growing pit of dread. All those murders and maimings I thought were the acts of a vengeful ghost were the mayhem of a killer who’s been preparing his next victim.
Now, he thinks I’m his prey.
And he wants to play a game.
If I lose, I’ll never fix what I’ve destroyed.
My mind whirrs for a solution. Can I make it back to thehouse before Xero? Impossible. He’s a foot taller than me and built like a titan. I wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Why would I agree to play a game I’m going to lose?” I ask.
“I’m giving you a head start,” he replies with a throaty chuckle that makes my skin tingle. It’s the same sensual laugh I used to hear each morning on the phone when he’d call me from the prison blind spot. I shove off the nostalgia, and the tears it brings, and focus on the threat.
“Why would I trust a single thing you say?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from trembling.
Xero exhales through the mask, the sound making me shiver. “Fine words for the woman who strung me along for months to get a book deal.”
My lips part with a protest, but he raises a gloved finger. Painted on its surface are bones. No wonder I thought he was the Grim Reaper in the dark.
“You’re going to accuse me of using our relationship to get published,” I yell, my face growing hot with shame. “If anyone’s to blame for that, it’s you and your letters. You kept talking about my book, and people wanted it to be about you. Everyone kept reaching out, demanding excerpts, and I wrote it because that’s what people wanted.”
He doesn’t even flinch at the accusation.
