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A Worse Idea 64

Agent Kirby explained the scene: the underpaid part-time student worker who’d found the corpse while hauling a bag of trash into the dumpster, that awful wound of Shade’s which made the left side of her face unrecognizable, the all-too-long suspect list.

Kirby slid her fat fingers through her short blond hair.

“That’s a lot of question marks,” Prometheus said.

“This Killer’s Gallery app is wiping the floor with us.” Kirby whistled. “A lot of bodies.”

“How’s it work?”

“Assassins log onto the app,” Kirby explained. “They give specifications for how much money they want to make, what their powers are, and provide information about their previous kills. When the Killer’s Gallery gets a client who wants an assassin with their specifications, the assassin gets pinged. Nobody knows who’s hiring and nobody knows who’s killing. At least, not so far as we can tell.”

Prometheus nodded his head. It sounded like the sort of complicated MA wasn’t properly equipped to handle. They had too many cases to handle, too many impossible crimes to sort through.

“You want to help us on this one?” Kirby asked.

Prometheus stood there, staring at the green dumpster. It’d been splattered with white paint, for a reason no one could really remember.

He chewed on his bottom lip. Anne needed a victory. She needed someone to look out for her. She had a sharp mind, and Prometheus wanted so desperately for her to be one of the good guys.

But he had a rule: no revenge. When vigilantes wanted revenge, they fucked everything up.

It wasn’t that he had such a strong connection to Shade. But he had known her. They’d talked. He felt the way emotion would cloud his judgement if he tried helping her case.

He’d seen a lot of people broken by revenge.

“I’m sorry.” Prometheus struggled to make his voice sound strong. He just managed it. “I can’t help you.”

He walked away from the crime scene. He had to call Anne.

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