Red Glove by Holly Black Read Free Book Online Page A

those problems from cropping up again and again. Plus, being worked that often results in bad side effects, like hearing music that’s not there.
    Philip was devastated when she left. He blamed me more than Barron, which I don’t think is entirely fair, although I guess in the end I gave her the charm that let her realize what was going on. Still, I refuse to feel guilty about breaking up his marriage.
    I’ve got enough to feel guilty about already.
    Agent Jones nods. “We talked to her today. She’s in Arkansas. We contacted her for the first time about a week ago, and she agreed to hear your brother out; first step was gonna be getting them on the phone together. Now she says she won’t come back, not even to claim the body.”
    “What do you want me to do?” I ask. I just want this to be over.
    “Philip told us enough that we think you have access to information. Information we need,” says Agent Hunt. “You know some of the same people that he did—and you have connections to the Zacharov family that he never had.”
    He means Lila. I’m almost sure of it.
    “That’s not—,” I start, but Jones cuts me off.
    “We’ve been hearing about Zacharov making people disappear for years. Just poof! Nothing. No body. No evidence. We still don’t know how he—or his wetworks guy—did it. Please, just look at some of the cases. See if there’s something familiar. Ask around. Your brother was our first big break. Now he’s dead.” Jones shakes his head with regret.
    I grit my teeth, and after a moment he looks away, like maybe he realizes that was a jackass thing to say. Like maybe, to me, my brother was a human being.
    Like maybe if I start looking around, I’ll wind up dead too.
    “Are you even trying to find who killed Philip?” I ask, since they seem fixated on Zacharov.
    “Of course we are,” says Agent Jones. “Finding your brother’s murderer is our number one priority.”
    “Any leads on this case are going to point us directly at his killer,” Agent Hunt says, standing. “Just to show you we’re on the level, I want you to see what we’ve already got.” Reluctantly I follow him out into the hall and then through a door into the observation room behind the mirror. He presses a button on some video equipment.
    “This is sensitive material,” says Agent Jones, looking at me like he expects me to be impressed. “We’re going to need you to be a smart kid and keep this information under wraps.”
    On a small screen my brother’s condo complex comes to life in full color. It’s evening, the sun glowing from the edge of the building as it slips below the tops of the trees. I can see the heat shimmer on the asphalt of the driveway. I can’t quite see his unit, but I know it’s just to the right of the frame.
    “The complex put in these surveillance cams recently,” Agent Hunt says quietly. “There was a break-in or something. The angle’s terrible, but we were able to get this footage from last night.”
    A figure in a dark coat passes in front of the camera, too close and too fast for the film to register much. The camera is pointed too low to get a glimpse of the face, but a few thin fingers of a leather glove are visible at the hem of a billowing black coat sleeve. The glove is as red as newly spilled blood.
    “That’s all we have,” Agent Hunt says. “Nobody else in or out. It looks like a woman’s coat and a woman’s glove. If she’s Zacharov’s regular hatchet guy, shooting isn’t her usual method of killing. But lots of death workers turn to nonworker techniques after they lose too many body parts to blowback. That’s usually how they trip themselves up. Of course, she could be a new recruit Zacharov sent out blind, just someone to get a job done with no obvious connection to the organization.”
    “So you’ve basically got no idea,” I say.
    “We believe that the person responsible for the murders found out that Philip was going to finger him. Or her. When Philip