“I want you to kill my stepdad.” I kick my feet off my desk and lean forward, rucking my brow. “Say that again, kid?” Usually, it’s dames trussed up in whalebone and lace that come slinking through my door. Or, as is more often the case these days, femmes fatales in Jimmy Choos and Armani knockoffs. The pipsqueak in my office is new, and I’m not sure I like his brand of new. He’s young, maybe a rawboned eleven, but he has the stare of someone three times his age and something twice as dangerous. Not here to sell cookies, that much is obvious. I saw him take a firm, hard look at the door, take
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