I snorted. “Yeah. Right.”
I kept going through the file until I found a photo of Charlotte Vaughn. She was a pretty girl, with the same brown eyes that her father had and glossy black hair that had been pulled back into two messy pigtails. She was staring at the camera, but her lips were barely curved up, and her gaze seemed dark and troubled, too dark and troubled for someone so young.
“How old is she?” I asked.
“Thirteen.”
Thirteen. The same age I’d been when a Fire elemental had stormed into my house and murdered my mother, Eira, and my older sister, Annabella. Before torturing me. Before I’d used my magic to collapse the stones of our mansion, accidentally killing my younger sister, Bria, in the process.
My fingers curled inward, my nails digging into my left palm and the spider rune scar there, that small circle surrounded by eight thin rays. Once upon a time, the rune had been a silverstone pendant, which I’d worn until the Fire elemental had superheated the rune with her magic, searing it into my palms like a cattle brand.
For a moment, the stench of charred flesh filled my nose, and I was back in the smoky, ruined remains of my family’s home, trying to swallow down my screams, my palms still burning, burning, burning from the silverstone that had been so cruelly, so brutally, melted into my skin—
“Gin?” Fletcher asked. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
I forced the memories back into the past where they belonged and concentrated on the file in my hand, letting the smooth, slick feel of the photos and papers ground me in the here and now. I flipped through some more pictures of Charlotte, until I came to one of her standing with a guy who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had the same black hair, tan skin, and brown eyes and was quite handsome, like a younger, leaner, more polished version of his father. The sly grin that he was giving the camera told me that he knew exactly how gorgeous he was. I saw the same smug smile on Finn’s face every day.
“Who’s he?” I asked, showing Fletcher the photo.
“Sebastian Vaughn, Charlotte’s older brother. He’s twenty-three and one of the vice presidents in his father’s construction company. Cesar made him the number two man in the firm a few months ago.”
“Any indication that he knows what caused the terrace to collapse? Or the abuse that their father is inflicting on Charlotte?”
Fletcher shook his head. “Not that I’ve been able to find. Some of his father’s business dealings may be questionable, but Sebastian seems to have kept his nose clean so far. Supposedly, he dotes on Charlotte and is always bringing her presents. If he knew about the abuse, he would probably try to stop it. At least, that’s what my sources think.”
“So what’s the problem? Vaughn obviously isn’t squeaky clean, not if he’s in business with Mab Monroe, and he likes to slap his daughter around. What are we waiting for?”
Fletcher shook his head. “I’m not sure. On the surface, everything seems legit and straightforward. But I’ve been looking into everyone who died that night at the restaurant and all of their friends and family members, and I can’t find anyone with enough cash to pay for a hit, at least not until some of the insurance settlements kick in. But half of the money has already been paid out, and I can’t trace it back to anyone. Of course, someone could have some hidden funds squirreled away that I haven’t found out about yet. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“But?”
“But I’ve got this feeling that there’s something a little bit . . . off about this job. Something I’m missing about the whole situation, although I can’t quite put my finger on what it might be.”
“Did you ask Jo-Jo about it?”
Jolene “Jo-Jo” Deveraux was the dwarven Air elemental who healed Fletcher and me whenever we got injured during a job. And similar to my Stone power, Jo-Jo’s Air magic whispered to her—of all the things that might come to pass. The stones muttered about the actions that people had already taken in a given spot, the crimes they had already committed, but the wind brought with it whispers of all the ways people might act in the future. Usually, if Fletcher had misgivings about a job, he ran things by Jo-Jo to see what she thought and if she might notice something that he’d missed. Sometimes she was able to tell him whether his worry was warranted.
Fletcher picked at a loose thread on one of the couch cushions. “I did ask Jo-Jo, but she said that she couldn’t get a clear sense of things from the information I gave her.”
That wasn’t unusual. Jo-Jo didn’t get supersharp glimpses of the future on cue. Like me, she had to listen to and interpret all the whispers that she heard. People’s thoughts and feelings were constantly changing, shifting even more than the wind, and things often simply got lost in translation. Sometimes Fletcher and I just had to trust in ourselves, that we were smart, sly, and strong enough to do the job and get away with it.
I stared at that photo of Charlotte Vaughn again, the one where she seemed so sad and wary. I didn’t have any reservations, hesitations, or misgivings about this job, not a single one, not when a young girl’s life was in danger. Maybe next time, her father wouldn’t be content with giving her bruises and broken bones. Maybe next time, his rage would be greater than it had ever been before. Maybe next time, he wouldn’t stop hitting her until she was dead.
“Let’s do it,” I said, making up my mind and closing the file on Cesar Vaughn. “The sooner, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
Fletcher wanted to wait until he had more info about the client, but I pushed him, loudly and repeatedly pointing out that Vaughn was a ticking time bomb as far as Charlotte was concerned, and he finally, reluctantly, agreed and said that he’d work on some of the details.
I would have been more than happy to grab my knives, drive over to Vaughn’s mansion, sneak inside, and do the deed tonight, but Fletcher wanted to do some scouting first and to be overly cautious about things, the way he always was. Even though I chafed at the thought of Charlotte being terrorized and in danger a second longer than necessary, I gave in to his wishes. As much as I hated to admit it, going in blind was never a good idea. Fletcher had told me that over and over, and he’d proven it earlier tonight when he’d mock-killed Finn and me.
But I told Fletcher flat-out that if he got any more reports of Charlotte being injured, I would go straight from recon to the action portion of the job. He nodded, knowing that I meant what I said.