Novel coming 7/15!
Maybe she’s just not cut out for long hauls.
They say not all assassins are. Some thrive on it, love slipping into a new life, put on a new face and a new accent and they really aren’t pretending in the end. “Chameleons,” Gregor calls them, with the closest thing Finch has ever heard to fear in his voice.
But then there are other assassins, most assassins even, that are strictly quick hits. Maybe Finch just doesn’t have the steady lies of a chameleon. Maybe she’s just going to have to accept she’s a quick hit girl.
Her grandmother will be disappointed.
Not only is she running her fingers over the ruby as she thinks it, she scoffs, but her hand is shaking.
And yet. And yet.
Nothing she’s done or said here feels like a lie. Instead she came to this tiny mountain hamlet and found… Amanda Coyle. And she’s found herself dreamily wondering if it wasn’t Finch that was the lie and really she’s been Amanda all along. All the blood and the pain and being so scared for so long… it was just a nightmare she dreamt before waking here. Maybe she’s always been here, tucked into the quilt-strewn bed with the heavy wood posts, just waiting to wake up.
It’s tempting. God it’s tempting. To walk back, to crawl back under the quilt and believe her own lies. Fall asleep in this hazy half-light dawn. Wake up a few hours from now and just insist, insist she’s Amanda Coyle. She’s bouncing around Europe to expand her cultural horizons. She’s sad… but nice.
It’s enough to make her laugh. Or at least that’s what she’s going to claim that choked sound was.
She drowns out any thoughts that might dare to follow with the sharp sound of her shotgun cocking.