The sharp blade of the hunting knife stung...it was so indescribably numbing. Holding it was government agent Beverly Ortega, who plunged it further into her throat with a hand clenching the handle so tight her knuckles turned white. The blood of the woman had long since began to seep from the tear threatening to severe her head, staining Agent Ortega's uniform and her face—exhausted by the birth of her son, her failed relationship with his father, and years of working as one of the only female police officers employed with the local police department.

As the life faded from her beautiful blue eyes, Beverly repeated the same sentence over and over in her mind.

This was the right thing to do.

This was the right thing to do.

This was the right thing to do.

The young woman committed an act of treason that couldn't be forgiven. She failed to eliminate the monster of man that became her husband and fathered the three children sleeping upstairs. She failed her country. Nothing would save her.

Beverly didn't realize she was crying until the warmth of the tears rolling down her cheeks pierced her troubled conscience like a bullet. Then—and only then—did she realize she was stealing her partner's life. She yanked the knife from her throat and stared at it as best as she could.

Staring back at her, in the blood-stained metal, was the reflection of a murderer.