The Blonde Identity (41)
Zoe wanted to argue—to fight—but her eyelids were too heavy and her limbs were too weak, so she just lay in the glow of the fire, trying not to think about the man who had the power to hurt her most of all.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Her
Zoe woke up to the feel of a cold fire and a bare back and the overwhelming sense that Sawyer wasn’t where he was supposed to be. She pushed up a little too quickly, and the room spun as she heard a deep voice say, “Good morning.”
He was sitting on the one chair they hadn’t burned—had it propped against the nearly rotten door, as if he could keep the rest of the world at bay through force of will alone.
He must have found some clothes somewhere because he was dressed in jeans and a cable-knit sweater. Mr. Michaelson’s coat—dry now—was draped over her layers of blankets. The designer tuxedo jacket was balled on the dusty floor beneath her head.
“You went shopping?” she asked, still groggy.
“I got you something.” He pointed to a pile by the fire. Jeans. A shirt and sweater. A pair of old boots. “The sizes are probably wrong, but . . .” He ran a hand through his wavy hair. “Hope you’re not picky.”
“I wouldn’t know if I were.” She gave a reluctant grin.
He didn’t smile back, but he got those deep creases around his eyes—the kind that made men look distinguished and women look old and proved that the universe is unequivocally unfair. But they sure looked good on him in any case.
“No, I guess you wouldn’t.”
That time she didn’t ask him to turn around. He just did it, pulling out two steaming cups of coffee and some food from a small sack as she tugged on the hodgepodge of clothes. The shoes were too big but he’d bought two pairs of socks and a big stack of bandages for her injured feet so she really wasn’t going to complain.
“Okay.” She tugged on the heavy sweater. “I’m decent.” She sat back by the fire and took a sip of the too-strong coffee, grateful for the warmth. “So did you conjure all this by magic or . . .”
He shook his head. “There’s a town about a half mile upriver. I figure we can walk there, catch a train. Maybe get a car.”
It was a solid plan, a perfectly viable option, but the fact remained that she didn’t know where they were going or what they were going to do when they got there. And there was something else, too—something she hadn’t had the nerve to think—much less say—until that very moment.
“Why’d she do it?” Zoe blurted while Sawyer examined the bottom of her feet. For the most part, the cuts were small and shallow, but he carefully layered antiseptic on each one before wrapping her foot in a thick bandage and helping her into the first pair of socks.
“What?” He looked up from his position on the floor.
“Alex. I get why she stole the drive from Kozlov, but why didn’t she take it to the CIA?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
But there was something in his tone—in the way he wouldn’t quite meet her gaze—that made her say, “You have a theory, though.” She was right, but he looked like he’d rather fight another assassin than tell her. “Sawyer? Why would Alex run?”
He put a glob of antiseptic on the biggest of the gashes and Zoe jerked when she felt the sting, but he kept her ankle in his hand, not letting her go anywhere.
“I don’t know.” His voice was hard, but his hands were gentle as he held her aching foot and, oh so softly, blew against the place where she was hurt. Which might have made her squirm for different reasons, but she couldn’t get distracted. She had to know.
“Why would Alex—”
“Because she went bad, okay? Because she got greedy? Because that drive is worth a small fortune to the right buyer and Alex has expensive taste? Because eventually . . .” He’d thrown the last of the wood on the fire and the flames were growing hotter, brighter, but somehow the room was a whole lot colder than it had been moments before.
“Because, eventually, this life breaks you. And you wake up one day and realize all you have to show for it is a body full of scars and a head full of ghosts and you start looking for a way out. Maybe . . . maybe it’s not a drive to Alex. Maybe it’s a parachute.”
Zoe didn’t know what scared her more: that Sawyer was talking about her sister or that, on some level, he was talking about himself. So she just said, “You’re wrong. I know my sister.” He huffed out a laugh that was more like a breath, soundless and borderline cruel. “I do! Alex and I are twins. Identical twins. We’ll be connected for the rest of our lives. We’re—”
“You’re not her!” He probably hadn’t meant to yell because, when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “You have the same DNA, but you’re not her. You walk into a room and everybody smiles. You hum and the world wants to sing. Yesterday I literally heard you use the term oopsie daisy. You’re good, Zoe. You’re good. People like Alex . . . People like me . . .” He looked away. “We can only do this job because we’re a little bit bad.”
She didn’t know what to say. You’re good too would have gotten her laughed at. You’re good to me would have made her sound desperate and lonely and all the things she didn’t want to be (but probably was anyway). Because at some point Sawyer had stopped being Mr. Spy Guy and started feeling like Her Guy, and that was just another lie. Just another cover. They weren’t really the Michaelsons, and they never, ever would be. Which was when she realized that she trusted Sawyer with her life. But she wasn’t strong enough to trust him with her heart.