The Mistress
“But you forgot one thing.”
She stepped closer, the light of the moon catching the glint of a needle she had hidden in the palm of her hand.
“A Blackwood never leaves a witness. Not even a ‘reformed’ one.”
I backed away, my heel catching on the edge of the rug, as the matriarch of the house—the woman I thought I had manipulated—raised the needle.
“Now,” Rita said, her eyes flashing with a predatory light. “Let’s make sure your ‘suicide’ is convincing.”