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At thirteen, I shot my half-brother. At fifteen, I killed my father's favorite mistress. In Austin, they call me Death. For my mother's dying wish, I locked my gun away and spent the next ten years playing the part of a proper lady. And what did it get me? At my own engagement party, a teenager threw hot soup on my chest and called me an old woman. My fiancé just laughed. "Don't argue with a child," he said. Fine. I'll show them exactly what "Three-Shot Zoe" means. ... A bowl of scalding chicken soup splashed across my chest. A wide stain bloomed on my red engagement dress, and the heat seared my skin. "Oops. My hand slipped." I looked up. A girl of eighteen or nineteen stood before me holding an empty bowl, grinning without the slightest trace of an apology. This was my engagement party. The Texas governor's mansion was hosting a grand feast, and every prominent figure in Austin had come. My fiancé, Julian Shaw, sat beside me—the city's most celebrated young legal scholar and heir to Shaw Bank. "Who are you?" I asked. "I'm Lily Reed, Jules's foster sister. We grew up together." She dropped the bowl onto the table, planted her hands on her hips, and tipped her chin high. "You're twenty-five, aren't you? You're an old woman. What gives you the right to marry Jules?" She shouted the insult loud enough for the whole room to hear. The entire banquet hall fell silent. Not an ordinary silence. The kind where every person in the room holds their breath at once. I saw Charles Bennett, president of the Chamber of Commerce, freeze with his wineglass halfway to his lips. The Austin police chief dropped his fork, and it clattered on the floor. He didn't dare pick it up. A few older men sitting in the corner turned pale. They all remembered what I'd done. When I was thirteen, my father's mistress poisoned my mother. For three days, my mother coughed up blood, clinging to life. My father used his connections to try and bury the whole thing. I picked up a gun, walked into the guest house where my half-brother lived, and shot him in the leg in front of everyone. When I was fifteen, the woman tried again. She poisoned my mother a second time. I spent three months investigating. Then I carried a bowl of her favorite cherry pudding into her room. After that day, she no longer existed in Austin. Death. Three-Shot Zoe. Those names spread from Austin all the way to Oklahoma. My father stood outside my door for an entire night. After that, he looked at me with a mixture of love and fear. Later, on her deathbed, my mother held my hand. "Zoe," she said, "you're still so young. Put down the gun and live a good life. Maybe someone will truly love you." For the sake of her dying wish, I locked that gun away for ten years. I learned flower arranging. I founded a charity school for girls. I dedicated myself to philanthropy. Austin's younger generation had long forgotten who Three-Shot Zoe was. The girl standing before me with the soup bowl clearly had no idea either. Julian set down his wineglass. "Zoe, Lily's just straightforward. She doesn't always know where the line is. You've always been generous. Don't argue with a child." Straightforward. Don't argue with a child. I rolled those two phrases around in my mind. Behind me, Mia Lane clenched her fists so hard her knuckles had gone white. She had been with me since we were children. She had seen what I was like at thirteen, when I feared nothing. I pressed my hand down on hers. My mother's words still echoed in my ears. I picked up my iced tea and took a sip. "Then I suppose I'll listen to my fiancé and let it go." When the banquet ended, the guests left in a hurry, as if they were fleeing. Only Lily took her time. As she passed me, she stopped and tilted her head. "This red dress is stained. Time to change it." Then she added with a grin, "And it's time to trade in the person wearing it for someone younger." Julian was right beside her. He di......

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