A Necessary Sin: The Sin Trilogy: Book I

“Oh, toots. I really don’t want to do this but I have no choice.”


I squeeze my eyes tighter and wait for the pain to come. But that isn’t what happens. He flips me to my back and presses something soft and feathery into my face so I can’t breathe.

I kick, struggling for air, but he presses it harder. I fight with every ounce of strength I have but it’s no use. He’s a grown-up and I’m only a little girl. I don’t have the strength to make him stop and I’m afraid. I’m about to die.

Then everything goes black.





Chapter One





Bleu MacAllister





Memphis, Tennessee


Just as a rose is unable to change its color, it isn’t possible for us to alter the past. It’s only once you realize this that you’ll be set free. This sounds really lovely, like it should be a quote in a book, but what happens when you can’t break the chains clutching you to a devastating and life-altering event? No one likes to talk about that kind of ugliness.

Events in our lives shape us. There’s basically two categories–good or bad. I’m not going to touch on the praiseworthy since I’m not a motivational speaker. I want to address the ugly.

This isn’t a perfect world. Bad things happen to good people. True evil exists and it walks this earth in the form of a well-suited man wearing expensive shoes. He speaks with a charming Scottish accent and smells of liquor and sweet tobacco. My mother’s killer.

Most children are too na?ve to recognize the moment they are being ruined for the rest of their lives. I wasn’t that lucky. I remember everything about that dreadful day and the memories often replay in my head–the bitter aroma of burning cookies, the smell of gunpowder floating in the air, even the vision of seeing Max’s brains splattered onto my carpet. I wish the amnesia I claimed to have would’ve stolen those gruesome memories. Maybe then this unquenchable demon with a thirst for hunting and executing wouldn’t have been spawned inside me.

That was the day Stella Bleu Lawrence died. And Bleu MacAllister was born.

I can barely recall a time in my life when I wasn’t obsessed with finding our attacker. I’ve spent years imagining the different ways he might beg for mercy as I hold a gun to his temple. These were the aspirations in my head when my mind would drift from memorizing presidents and state capitals. I never had innocent, childlike thoughts. My dreams weren’t of becoming the doctor to discover the cure for cancer or becoming the first female president; they were consumed by dark, vengeful thoughts.

For eighteen years, every aspect of my life has revolved around retaliation in one form or another, with the exception of the two pleasures I allowed myself: photography and playing violin.

Other kids took karate lessons for fun. I took Muay Thai for strength and defense skills. Girls my age enrolled in gymnastics because it’s what all their friends were doing. I became a gymnast to learn balance and agility. My fellow ballerinas liked wearing tutus. I became a dancer to master grace. I wasn’t naturally the brightest student so I excelled to the top of my class by becoming the most studious. Why? I’ve always known being the smartest person in the room would one day be my greatest tool. An intelligent person has a chance at outwitting another using a gun in place of his brain.

How does a person live this way without going mad? It wasn’t easy. But I had a confidant–my dad.

I was twelve years old when I sat Harry, my adoptive father, down and told him it was time for a talk. No, not about the birds and bees. I’m certain that would’ve been much more preferable. Instead, I described my memories of the dreadful day my mother was murdered and how I was suffocated with a pillow and left for dead.

I’d spent the previous five years claiming to have no memory of the horrid event. To say Harry was shocked to learn the truth would be an understatement. But that didn’t hold a candle to what came next. Telling him I intended to hunt and execute Thane Breckenridge was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Harry wasn’t delighted to learn that this little girl he saved was planning a murder. I’m certain no father wants to hear that his daughter’s aspiration in life is to grow up to be a killer, especially when he’s an FBI special agent sworn to uphold the law. That’s why I had to give him an ultimatum. Some might call it an ultimatum he couldn’t refuse–either teach me how to kill or watch me attempt it on my own without any training.