Page 18 of Splitting Secrets
The Jeep swerves right, tires screeching as they lose traction against the slick pavement and barrel over a speed limit sign. Time slows as the Jeep crashes into a tree at the bottom of the hill. The sound is nearly deafening, even from where I stand way above.
“That was easier than I expected,” I mumble to myself, glancing around to make sure no good Samaritans are coming to fuck up my plans.
Once I’m sure no one is coming, I begin my descent, sloshing down the hill in sopping wet boots. I’m not worried about leaving tracks behind this time. When the Syndicate says they’re taking care of a crime scene, I can be as sloppy as I want.
Two people sit in the mangled Jeep, their heads slowly bobbing around as they reorient.
Of course, the crash alone didn’t kill them. God forbid it’s ever that easy.
“Help us,” the passenger croaks when I appear in his line of sight. I can see from the reflection of their interior lights that he’s got a gash across his forehead that has blood seeping down his face. I watch as it dribbles over his eyelids, covering the whites of his eyes. He blinks it away, then slowly turns his head to check on the woman beside him. Her head hangs forward, chin tucked against her chest.
The slow, off-tempo rise and fall of her chest confirms she’s also still alive.
I release an irritated sigh, stepping forward to check the front of the vehicle and the tree that’s embedded itself halfway through the engine bay. Whatever story the police will weave about their deaths will be easily proven with its condition.
“Please—” a garbled, feminine voice sounds from inside the car. A wet cough interrupts the plea.
I walk around the tree to step beside her door, wrapping my fingers around the handle and yanking it open.
My father always warned against talking to the victims.“Get in, make the kill, and get out,”he’d drill.
His voice still rings in my ears, as if his spirit has come to scream the reminder directly into my psyche.
But there’s something about these two that pulls at my heartstrings enough to have me reaching across her chest and unbuckling her seat belt. It has me tucking my arms beneath her knees and back and cradling her against my chest, then carrying her over to a soft patch of wet grass as she saws out breaths. Then, doing the same for him.
“It’s you,” she rasps, staring up at me in horror as rain splatters across her skin. The man turns his head toward us. Then irritation mars her face, furrowing her brow. “You’re too...early.”
“Not yet,” the man seems to echo her sentiment.
Too early? What the fuck are these two on?
“It’s . . . ” she inhales a hollow breath. “Too late.”
I stare down at her, finally starting to piece together why she looks so familiar to me. Her brown hair splays around her head, contrasting the deathlike pallor of her face. There’s an angry split in her lips that pulls open each time she speaks.
Constance and Carter Chevalier. The leaders of the rebellion I’ve been following since I was seventeen.
Fuck.
My first solo kill, and I’ve gone and royally fucked myself and everything my father worked for.
Why did the Supremes send me after them? Is there a chance they know my involvement with the rebellion?
“Sonnet...” Carter mutters. His eyes are cast skyward as tears fall down his temples, disappearing into his hair. “My Sonnet,” he quietly cries.
“Ah, God, it hurts,” Constance complains with a wince. When she shifts to her side and realizes I’m still standing here, she scowls at me. “You need to leave,” she commands in an angry tone, though the weakness of her voice takes away any intimidating effect.
Killing missions with my father were always easier than this. Cleaner. This is a complete shit show. The Syndicate is expecting results from me, but the people of the rebellion are going to castrate me if they realize what I’ve done.
I have to kill them. Put them out of their misery and collect my paycheck, then figure out a way to spin this. It’s what my father would do. No one needs to know it was me. But the misery in Carter’s eyes and the anger in Constance’s have me questioning this enough to keep me from pulling my knife from my pocket and slitting their throats.
“You weren’t supposed to come until later,” she berates again, her hand slowly shifting toward the pocket of her jeans to pull out a phone.
Her words stop me dead in my tracks. “You knew I was coming?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Carter spits. “Of course we knew.”
12
