I grit my teeth, searching for an excuse. In my frenzy, I didn’t consider how this conversation would go. I was simply looking for an answer to calm me. I can’t tell him what I know. I can’t tell him anything about Cain or his investigative practices. Stupid girl! What is happening to me? I’m always so vigilant. Now, when I most need to keep my head, I’m losing it!

But it’s too late. Sam needs an answer. I swallow my fear. “Was she a real person?”

His low, menacing chuckle makes me cringe. “Well, of course she’s real. She’s you.”

I shut my eyes as dread swirls. He’s being evasive. “Was she someone else before she was me?”

There’s a pause and then, to my surprise, Sam actually answers. “Yes.”

Prickles run down my neck. “Where is she now?”

“So many questions, my little mouse . . . I have to wonder why.” I hear the familiar pull of the chain affixed to the light in the cellar. On . . . off . . . on . . . off . . . and I think back to the day he handed me all of Charlie’s identification. The day he collected all of mine. What was he going to do with it? Sell it to someone else so she can pretend to be me?

I press my lips together to keep from speaking. I’ve never questioned Sam. Never. And now he gets a phone call from me in the middle of the night, riddled with unspoken accusations. It’s going to make him suspicious.

“Answer me!” he finally demands.

“I’m just wondering if she’s . . .” I force down the bile rising again in my throat. “What happened to her?” Did you kill her, Sam? Was it for me? Did you have this all planned out four years ago? Maybe earlier?

Of course I don’t expect Sam to admit to anything. He’s never shared anything incriminating with me. If I ever went to the cops, I’d have nothing but accusations and circumstantial evidence that wouldn’t hold up. Certainly no valuable information to barter for my exoneration. Aside from Dominic and now Jimmy, I’ve never met any of his associates. I rarely step foot inside his legitimate companies. I don’t know how he gets the heroin; I would never ask. I know he’s made a few trips to the Middle East over the last few years on “business.” But I highly doubt his real estate firm, his roofing company, his franchise steakhouse, or any of the other dozen ventures he’s involved in has anything to do with the Middle East.

I’m sure the DEA would question his trips as well, if they were watching. I’ve never felt their presence, though. Then again, I don’t know what having the DEA’s attention would feel like. For all I know, that guy sniffing around me last spring wasn’t Sam’s friend and was in fact the DEA. Either they’re discreet or they haven’t caught on to Sam yet. I guess when you’re really good at what you do, it’s harder to pin things on you.

I hear the hiss of air through Sam’s teeth on the other end before he offers in a phony nonchalant tone, “Who knows? Maybe she betrayed someone who gave her everything. Maybe she wasn’t a good little mouse.”

My heart begins to race, pounding against my rib cage. He evaded the question but to me, it’s clearly an answer.

And a warning.

“Is that what you wanted to know?”

Clearing my throat, I manage to get out, “Yes.”

“I hope I don’t have anything to worry about. Remember, we’re in this together. There’s no room to get sloppy. Yesterday, you were sloppy.”

Sloppy. The same thing he accused Dominic of being.

“I know, S—” The coppery taste of blood taints my taste buds as I bite my tongue hard, to avoid saying his name. “It won’t happen again.”

“Good. Because we have a really good thing going. And it’s going to get much better.” There’s a pause. “I see you’re running low on money. I’ll deposit another ten in your account tomorrow. Go buy yourself something nice.”

“I will. Thank you.” Money . . . It all comes down to money. How Sam values that over everything else and how he assumes everyone else does, too. The funny thing is, Sam could deposit ten times that much into my account without feeling it financially. But he never gives me too much. Just enough to keep me around, needing him.

I listen to the static on the phone for I don’t know how long after Sam hangs up. Finally, I sink back into my seat.

Charlie Rourke was a real person.

And the real Charlie Rourke is dead.

I’ve been obliviously pretending to be a dead girl for months now. I’ve turned her into a stripper and a drug trafficker. I’ve looked forward to the day I can shred her ID up into little bits and pretend that she never existed.

But she did exist.

And Sam likely had a hand in her death.

Was she just some unfortunate girl who met the wrong person one night? Someone looking for a blond runaway who no one would miss? Or did Sam know the real Charlie Rourke? Was she running drugs for him? Did she do something to fall into his bad graces?

Am I about to fall into Sam’s bad graces? With Ginger answering my burner phone, with the sudden questions, with whatever he may have yet to hear from Bob. What if Bob tells him about Cain?

Cain.

My chest throbs as his name touches my thoughts. I was too distracted, running from Penny’s tonight, to think about all that had transpired. I don’t know what that was back there, but I know I didn’t want it to end. He seemed intent on keeping his hands on me and I was intent on letting him do so, all the way to his home and into his bed, if he invited me.

But now Cain is right in the thick of it. He’s made an enemy out of Bob. He thinks he has my entire history. I can’t be angry with him about hiring the investigator. I understand why he does it. It’s to protect himself from people exactly like me.

But he’s not protected. Sam’s too smart for him. Sam’s too smart for everyone.

This foolish plan I have? That’s all it is . . . foolish. I’m never going to be able to buy an identity like the one Sam arranged for me because Sam probably killed for it. All I can do is take my money and run.

I have twenty-five grand in my account—a “secret” account, different from the joint one with Sam—saved. Add ten grand coming tomorrow and another twenty or so for my SUV and I can make a clean break with a good chunk of money. Of course, I’ll have to drain both accounts and, what . . . carry 55,000 dollars in my gym bag? Because I can’t open a bank account without any ID and I won’t risk using Charlie’s. I don’t know if Sam could find a way to trace a bank account in her name, but I can’t risk it. To be safe, I have to assume that if the second “Charlie Rourke” is entered into any computer, he can find me.

I’ll just jump on a bus and go . . . where? I’ve always wanted to see the Deep South. Maybe somewhere in Louisiana or Alabama. Some low-key town where I might be able to work under the table and rent a small apartment without all the necessary background checks. Or I could cross the border into Mexico. But then I’ll never get back in, because I’ll never get a passport again. No . . . I have to stay in the country. Forever. I’ll never get to go to Europe or the Caribbean. Not until Sam dies and I somehow assume my real identity again. When will that happen? In twenty years? Thirty years? After thirty years of anonymity?

Heaving a sigh, I take a look at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I’ll cut my hair, for sure. Maybe dye it. Would I still wear colored contacts? Hide my violet eyes?

What name would I use? Not my real name and not Charlie. Something new.

A month ago, when I thought about this—leaving all of my past behind and starting completely fresh—a feeling of exhilaration coursed through me. Like locks releasing, chains tumbling, and being able to just run without ever looking back. Now, though, now that it’s really happening—not as I had planned it but happening nonetheless—I somehow feel more trapped than before.

I will have no one.

I will have nothing.

“Why, Sam? Why would you do this to me?” For years, I felt nothing but gratitude and loyalty to Sam. Bu now, I feel nothing but bitter hurt.

I have no other choice.

I have to run.

Now.

Pressing my forehead to the steering wheel, I let the tears pour freely.

* * *

“Ginger?”

Her eyes flash open. “Yes?”

“Did you get locked out of your apartment?”

“No. Why?”

“Well . . .” I do a cursory glance around the commons to see that no one else is outside. “Because it’s two a.m. and you’re sitting outside my apartment door, asleep.”

Making a point of stretching her arms over her head, Ginger lithely climbs to her feet and moves away. I unlock and open my door. Without invitation, she’s trailing me in.

“Did Cain send you here to check up on me?” I toss my keys onto the end table and turn on the only lamp in the living room.

“Why would he do that?” she asks coyly, averting her eyes to a chipped nail. Ginger would lose her shirt in a game of poker.

With a sigh, I flop down onto my couch, my focus on the stippled ceiling. I’m drained. Emotionally and physically drained. “Because you should still be at Penny’s and yet you left early to sit outside my apartment door.” I can’t ignore the twinge of disappointment in my stomach that it wasn’t Cain waiting for me. I know I told him to leave me alone and it’s for the best, but . . . still.

I feel Ginger’s eyes on me, on my bloodshot eyes and the streaks of mascara I’m sure have gathered. Two hours of crying will do that. She finally settles on, “How’s your cheek?”

“Fine.” As long as I don’t touch it or smile, or vomit on the side of the road, I barely notice it.