Shadowed (Team Zero #4) by Rina Kent

Birds’ chirps welcome the day from above even though the sky is starting to get gloomy. Every time there’s an overcast sky, I can’t help but remember those eyes. He’s always been as flippant as the weather.

Seriously, where’s that ‘time heals everything’ when I need it? Shadow can’t keep popping in my head all day, every day. But again, I should know more than anyone that time can’t heal everything.

I focus on cultivating tulips with careful, steady hands. As much as I love doing this and volunteering at the shelter, this can’t be a permanent stay for me.

There has to be somewhere safer where I can raise my child. I can’t go back to the forces. Part of the deal with Mist and Ghost was that they’d stage my death.

One: because their leader – whoever that is – needs proof that Ghost killed the traitor.

Two: so the police lets my case rest.

Three: because of Shadow. If he thinks I’m alive, he’ll go to all lengths to find me and that includes putting Liam and Elle’s lives in danger. If he thinks I’m dead, he won’t approach them.

A slash of grief grips me when I think of my surrogate family. I even lost the bracelet she gave me during that atrocious day. I don’t want Liam and Elle to think I’m dead, but if it’s to protect them from Shadow, I’ll do anything. Ghost agreed to keep my death news as a last resort, so I’m hoping he sticks to his part of the deal.

“This mobster business is nothing compared to the world we came from.” Mist told me that day when I insisted on knowing what they really are. “We’re killers for hire. Murder is all that we know. I like your bravery, Zoe, and I don’t want you to end up as collateral damage. If you want to protect yourself, stay away from people like us.”

I know Mist is no-nonsense but hearing those facts crushed the truth home. In all those years, Shadow has been separated from Nonna, he’s been turned into a killer.

At times, I wonder how that feels and if any of them had a say in it. Mist, Ghost, and Shadow seem so assertive about what they are. They’re ruthless, calculative people who fit the cold-blooded image. But are they heartless? Perhaps.

But perhaps they aren’t. Perhaps deep down, there’s another side to the story.

Not that I should care. Damn me.

I carry a basket of newly-cultivated tulips and place it in the front of my bicycle. After removing my working clothes, I climb and hit the long road. Trees decorate the distance. The house is a bit isolated from the town, but a good twenty minutes ride on the bicycle every morning is brilliant.

Mr and Mrs George, the owners of the florist shop, greet me with huge northerner smiles.

They’re both big and look so healthy for a couple in their sixties. Then again, most people in York aren’t stress-bitten and their life rates are undoubtedly higher than us in the South.

Mark takes my basket, nodding in approval about my picks. After he hands the flowers to his wife, Lisbeth, he asks. “Fancy a cuppa?”

I plop my elbows on the counter, grinning. “I had my coffee, but you know me, I can’t say no to more.”

Mark pauses arranging a set of beautiful blueberries to narrow his cobalt blue eyes on me. “I said a cuppa. That means tea, lass.”

“I want coffee.”

“Are you even English? You’re probably one of those French who infiltrated us after the war.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Mark.” Lisbeth shakes her head before disappearing behind a door to the right.

I place a hand over my heart and feign gasping. “I haven’t thought about that but maybe I am.”

He huffs. “Bloody French.”

“Bloody Brits. No, that’s not it.” I adopt my funniest French and gesticulate wildly. “Pfft. Les Anglais!!”

Mark guffaws and his belly moves with the deep-throated laughter. I can’t help but laugh along.

These simple, warm-hearted exchanges are what keep me afloat since that day I walked out of Le Salon and never looked back.

Lisbeth returns with a large mug filled with coffee that smells like home. Their entire shop oozes a homey feel. Framed pictures of their children are plastered all over the walls. One is a pilot. Another is a teacher — the one I should thank for the coffee machine. The third is a simple farmer. Mark and Lisbeth are proud of all of them. They never talk about one without mentioning the other.

What would it feel like if I were raised in a normal family with normal parents like Lisbeth and Mark? I wouldn’t be a shameful existence. I would even have a successful career. A family. I could bring a coffee machine to my mother at Christmas and she can give it to the southerner girl.

Stop dreaming, Zoe.

“Will you read to the children today?” Lisbeth asks in a thick northern accent.

“Of course.” I take a sip of coffee. Homemade. Yummy. “I’ve been debating on which story to read.”

“You southerners always overthink things.” She grins. “Live your life and forget about choices.”

If only it was that easy.

I smile back at Lisbeth. I don’t know if it’s because of the wrinkles or the short, whitening hair, but she reminds me so much of Nonna. The only light in Shadow’s darkness. I often wonder how she’s doing. I didn’t get to say goodbye, but I wish I saw her one last time on that day everything went to hell.