by L.A. Boruff
Turning forty is less Witches of Eastwick and more Black Widow. Go figure.
I’ve always known I was adopted. It never mattered much…until my birth mother died.
I inherited a new power from the mysterious woman. But now she’s dead and I, despite the fact that I have exactly zero training, I’m the next time-traveling assassin.
Don’t get excited. The job sounds glamorous, but it comes with a huge learning curve and plenty of mishaps. Then there’s having to actually assassinate people. That part sucks.
It could be worse. I could still be working retail.
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