Page 74 of Run, Little Rabbit

“You’re right. He won’t respond because I’m not listing the ad.”

“Come on,” I beg. “At least give me the chance to look him in the eyes. I want to meet the man who killed her, and I want him to tell me why he did it. I don’t care if he turns around andsays she was just another job; I just… I want toknow. Can’t you understand that?”

The line goes silent, and I know I’ve got him.

“Fine,” he sighs. “On your head be it. What do you want the listing to say?”

“Put something like ‘Wanted: A songbird to answer an Echo. Quintessentially knowledgeable and willing to trade. Fee: TBD.’ Will that work? Is it espionage-y enough?”

Sphinx snorts. “Is that a technical term?”

“Fuck you.”

“No thanks. Let’s see if we can lure him in with that, but Echo?”

“Yeah?”

“Be prepared that he won’t answer. The Lark hasn’t been seen for nearly twenty years.”

Okay, I could deal with that. It’s only a silly idea anyway, and at least I’ve tried, right? That has to count for something. “I know. And thanks, Sphinx.”

“No worries. Catch you later.” The line goes dead, and I stare at my phone. Have I done the right thing luring out a serial killer? For all I know, he could be dead. Or maybe he’s retired. I mean, if he was working twenty years ago and he’d already established a reputation back then, he must be well into his fifties now, maybe even older.

I throw my phone down on my kitchen island and pour another tequila. I’m about to down it when my doorbell rings. The app goes off on my phone, and I look at the image of the twins standing on the other side of the door, holding up my little calling card.

The one I must have sent Dad.

Well, fuck.

Chapter Thirty-One

Echo

“What the hell do you two want?” I ask as the twins make themselves comfortable in my house.

I’ve lived here for a few years now, since I was twenty-one. I’d grown up on a country estate in the middle of nowhere, but when I was old enough to no longer need babysitting, I bought this with some of the money Mum left me. A society princess needs a palatial little townhouse to keep up appearances.

Conor grabs my recently poured shot of tequila and downs it.

“Eww, gross. Get your own glass, asshole.”

He grins wide. “We share the same DNA, Echo. I don’t have cooties.”

I snort. “Jeez, how old are you? Who even says that anymore?”

Cillian throws a disdainful look at his twin as he hops up onto one of the barstools at my white marble-topped island. “Don’t be childish, brother. It’s beneath us.”

Conor just rolls his eyes and starts rummaging for a couple more shot glasses.

“What do you pair want?” I ask again when Connor returns victorious and pours us all a shot. He sits in the seat next to his twin, and if you didn’t know who was who, you’d never be able to tell the difference. They look exactly the same from the top of their strawberry-blonde hair down to their Italian loafer-clad feet. It’s been a long time since they’ve been able to trick me, though. Conor’s eyes still have a sliver of soul left in them. Cillian’s, on the other hand, are as cold and as dead as ice.

“Why don’t you tell us about this?” Cillian says as he slides my calling card across the surface.

I could play cute and deny knowing anything about it, but if they’re here with that card, they already know everything. “That there would be the calling card for the Six Minute Killer.”

“Cute name,” Conor says, his eyes watching every micro-expression on my face.

“Thanks.”

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