Chapter 1

I comefrom a long line of black widows.

A whole society of them.

My mother killed my father when I was too young to remember him, and played the role of grieving widow so well, no one suspected a thing.

Now, it’s my turn.

A pinch of this…a dash of that…and just the right amount of…

Perfection.

I place the cap on the vial and turn it in my hands, marveling at the beautiful periwinkle color.

One day, my skills will buy my freedom,I think to myself. But only after I put them to use.

I place the vial in a secret compartment in my purse and force my face into a neutral expression.

My mother gets up from her chair and sighs. “You were sloppy.”

“Were you much better at my age?”

It’s a silly question considering she married at sixteen and killed her first mark at eighteen, but it was a different time then. Poison detection has come a long way, as have background checks and surveillance videos.

Mother opens a drawer, grabs a bag of hemlock, and hands it to me. “Extract the seeds.”

There’s no point in arguing with her. I could perform the task to perfection a thousand times, and she’d still ask me to do it again.

Her love for torturing me is just too great.

I take the cones from the bag and pull at the scales to extract the winged seeds. Because they’re being taken by force, I won’t get as much, but that doesn’t matter because we grow them in such abundance.

“Here you go.” I push the seeds over to her, hoping it’s enough. “Should I concentrate them?”

She presses her eyes closed and releases a heavy sigh. “I can’t recall a time I was ever this anxious before a job.”

“You’ve trained me well,” I tell her. “Not that it matters. My profile has been up on the matching site for a week and I’ve yet to generate any interest.”

“But you will, sweetheart. This isn’t Chatter, where men go for hookups. Miss May’s clients scrutinize their options carefully, using background checks and private investigators to do their legwork.”

“Doesn’t that worry you?”

“No, and why would it? The Web has gone to great lengths to remove almost every mention of us from the internet outside of the social media presence I’ve carefully curated for us. We’re pristine.”

“Let’s say that we never get a bite, and Miss May isn’t all she’s cracked up to be…then what? It’s not like I’m going to find a mark at a bar.”

“We have Sisters?—”

“Face it, Mom. Your little death sorority is dying! When are you going to get it through your head that this is 2024 and people are a lot more suspicious than they used to be?”

“It’s not my little death sorority—it’s ours. The Web has been around for centuries, and boasts women in its ranks that have the powers to protect us. Just so long as we follow their rules.”

“Once I do this job, I’m out,” I snicker.

“If that’s your prerogative, then I cannot stop you just so long as you complete at least one job.”

The Web always collects insurance from its members if they decide to leave. And by that, I mean a murder. Something they can hold against us for the rest of our lives, in case they need a favor, or in case we want to talk.

All I have to do is kill one ugly soul, and I’m free.

Mother looks at me, her granny-apple eyes full of concern. “Just make sure it doesn’t happen in the bedroom. No one blinks an eye when an old man grabs his chest and collapses on the sidewalk, but the bedroom will raise suspicion.”

Again, she mentions marrying me off to an old man, not knowing how my private conversation with Miss May, the owner of Wife for Hire, actually went.

Mother had filled out the application for me, but at my sit-down with the dark-haired maven, which she was forbidden from attending, I had a mini rebellion.

It was instigated by Miss May herself, who knew what mothers like mine were like. Not the killing part. The overbearing, controlling, insistent side she’s not afraid to show, because, to her, it means she’s a good mother.

I still remember the deadpan look she gave me when she asked, “You don’t really want to marry a seventy-year-old, do you?”

Admittedly, my bold move could cause problems. People aren’t as suspicious when a rich, gluttonous man suffers a heart attack as they are when it happens to a man in his thirties. But a nineteen-year-old is far less likely to want to kill a thirty-year-old husband than one who’s an old geezer, so in my head, I’d reasoned that people won’t be as suspicious.

I’ll have to forgo poison and settle on an accident, which shouldn’t be too hard. The Sisters can help with it, providing me with an opportunity and an alibi.

Mother’s phone pings, and she begins cackling manically, which can only mean one thing.

One of our Sisters just got away with murder.

“Is Daphne finally blooded?” I ask.

She shakes her head from side to side. “It’s Lily.”

My brow knits in confusion. “But she’s not due to off hers for at least three months.”

“Something must have happened to move up the timeline.”

“Did she go with bleeding hearts?”

“Wheelchair malfunction,” she says, her eyes locked on the screen. “Sent him straight into the pool.”

“Can we be sure it was her doing?”

“Her handler knew it was coming and has provided proof.”

This should be joyous news, but it only makes me feel the pressure of my own upcoming assignment.

“Maybe an accident is better than poison?” I say, hoping to soften her to the idea.

Mother snorts derisively. “And end up like Anne?”

Anne wanted to end her marriage in style, so she ran over her husband with a car provided by the sisters. It was supposed to look like a hit-and-run done by a confused drunk. Unfortunately for her, she felt smug and went to rub it into his face after she backed over him a few times.

She didn’t expect that he’d reach up and claw her face.

Because she was so sloppy, the Sisters had to dispose of him in a way that would ensure he’d never be found.

Which has raised suspicion.

Now, she can’t get a death certificate, has no access to her inheritance, and has suspicious family members breathing down her neck.

Not that she has anything to worry about. Without a body or evidence, there’s precious little the police can do.

And the sisters are thorough.

Mother goes to my closet and pulls out a floral patterned sundress. “Put this on.”

I arch a brow. “More pictures?”

“Would you please stop being so defiant?” she huffs. I see the desperation in her pale green eyes and feel sad for her.

She needs this more than I do, because once you’ve reached a certain age, your role transitions within The Web and you go from cunning vixen to janitorial staff, and my mother hates cleaning up crime scenes.

Some Sisters do so well with their marks, they live lives of luxury and work as mentors and handlers to the upcoming generation. You’d think that with three dead husbands, my mother would be so well off, but she never landed a big fish.

My father was her largest catch. She’d just turned sixteen, and he’d gotten her pregnant. He married her to avoid a scandal, then fell to his knees on a golf course. He was old, so no one suspected my sweet, young mom of foul play.

Now, you might think I’d be bitter that she offed my father, but you won’t see me crying any tears. He was notorious for his deplorable taste, and it was a shock to the Sisterhood when he was able to get it up for my mother, given that she was three years older than his preference.

Yeah, he deserved what she gave him.

Unfortunately for her, he’d gone deep into debt quickly after they married, and she inherited almost nothing.

Each husband thereafter made less, leaving her less when she took them out.

All her life, she loved being a Black Widow. A blooded Sister that never marred a job. Yet she has nothing to show for her good work.

She needs this, and I won’t let her down.

I pick up the dress and give her an agreeable smile. “A few more pictures won’t hurt.”