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“You better.” I clench and unclench my hands, aching to pound my fist into his face until he’s in worse shape than our intended victim. “Half the school has seen us together and I don’t need another rumour accusing me of murder.”

I extend a hand to help him regain his footing. He wipes his bleeding nose against his sleeve, and nods to the man behind us. “You ready to do the honours?”

With a flick of my lighter, I ignite a flame and the man yells louder, cords visibly straining on either side of his neck. He rocks the heavy chair forward, taking a few duck steps forward.

I touch the flame to a dribble of petrol on the floor, stepping back as it combusts into life and engulfs him.

Ezra turns away. He’s never had the stomach for the job, no matter how often my uncle exposes him to the violence of our profession.

Nobody would fault me for turning aside as well, but I watch the man’s skin crispen in the flames, fat melting, his muscles retracting until his body curls into itself.

At times like this, I hate the work my uncle makes me do, but I watch until the rope burns through, and the corpse slumps sideways out of the chair, hitting the concrete with a thud. Anything less would be cheating.

After the flames die down, I tidy away the equipment we brought to the scene, leaving the disposal crew to tackle the rest.

My mind soon moves to my next problem. Francesca.

If I approach her, spouting threats and forcing her to recant, she’s certain to turn further against me.

But I have her school fee situation up my sleeve, and it’s obvious her mother isn’t coming in to sign the appropriate documents anytime soon. A problem I can solve on her behalf to win some favour.

Hopefully, it’s worth enough to offset what I’ll need to do, thanks to Ezra.

A strange sensation washes over me, and it takes a moment to understand the knot in my stomach is anticipation. It’s been a long time since a job—since anything, really—excited me this much.

I can only hope the result matches to my expectations.

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

KINCAID

On Monday morning,I wait in the visitor parking lot at Westlake, ignoring the homeroom bell because I’m not here for classes.

An old Holden Kingswood in flaking silver turns into the lot halfway through first period, and I walk across to greet the middle-aged redhead who emerges. “Demi Rylan?”

“That’s me.” She gives me a hug, releasing a cloud of patchouli. “Do I look the part?”

She looks frazzled. Strands of grey have overtaken the red in her hair, loose around her shoulders.

“You do. Here’s your ID.”

I pass her the driver’s licence and credit card that Tyson mocked up over the weekend, including the signature on the back which matches to the forms he found online.

“Emphasise you’re running late, so they won’t start with the small talk. Don’t volunteer information, only answer direct questions. If they ask something you can’t answer, pretend you’re getting a phone call and ring me. I’ll either give you the information or get you out of there, okay?”

“The money?” I give her the agreed sum in cash, waiting impatiently while she thumbs through the notes, then nods. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

I wait in the library foyer opposite and watch her go inside. Demi is part of a community acting troupe my uncle sponsors—the same place he discovered Onyx—and she was happy to help with my assignment, play-acting Francesca’s mother.

If she pulls it off, it’ll save me thirty thousand and give me the fraudulent activity to hold over Francesca’s head.

If not, I’ll be another six grand in the hole. No biggie.

It’s nearing ten minutes when she wafts through the central doors, turning back one time to natter with someone inside, twiddling her fingers in a wave.

“You get it done?” I ask, intercepting her the moment she’s out of view of the admin office.

Her broad smile reassures me. “Not a problem. Is there anything more?”