The Blonde Identity (43)

“You were going to leave me . . . on our honeymoon!”

“We aren’t actually married!”

He might have yelled.

She might have gasped.

And the whole world might have tilted on its axis as he shook his head, a softness in his voice she didn’t like at all. “You would have been better off without me.”

Is that what he thought? That she wasn’t in danger? That she didn’t need him? Want him? Did he really not remember . . .

“You killed a man with a negligee!” Zoe shouted, then headed for the door.

Outside, sunlight bounced over the icy landscape, and she had to squint against the glare.

“Zoe, wait!”

She didn’t dare slow down, but she risked a glance over her shoulder. Sawyer was pulling on the backpack and pushing a gun into his waistband at the small of his back, but he was looking at her like she was the most dangerous thing around.

“What’s in the bank box?” she called.

“I don’t know.” He caught up with her, lunging to block her path. “Nothing. Probably.”

And all Zoe could do was stand in the morning light, breathing hard, listening for all the things he wouldn’t say.

Like whether or not he meant it when he called her sweetheart . . . Like why he’d bought the ring . . . Like what was he thinking all those times she’d caught him looking, smirking, smiling at her . . . Like how had she been foolish enough to think she knew him when she didn’t even know herself . . .

“Zoe . . .”

“You know, for a good spy, you’re a bad liar.” She pushed past him, heading toward town.

“Zoe!”

“Actually,” she called back, “you probably aren’t even a very good spy!”

He threw his arms out wide. “I killed a man with a negligee!”

Zoe didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. She had to get to town. She had to get to Switzerland. She had to find that bank.

And then she had to find her sister.

“Zoe . . .” Sawyer was beside her again, his stupid long legs with their stupid long stride. “Can we talk about this, please? Can we . . . Where are you even going?”

“Oh, me? I’m leaving you. Because I don’t need you, remember?”

“Zoe, wait.”

And for some reason she stopped. She looked up at him. It hurt, but she did it anyway.

“Can we . . .” he started, but she reached for him, arms sliding beneath his jacket and wrapping around his waist, her head against his heart. For just one second, she wanted to savor this—remember this—so she closed her eyes and sank into all his strength and warmth because he was the best thing she had, but, turned out, she’d never had him at all.

“Hey.” His hands were warm on her cold skin as he tilted her face up to his. “I’m—”

She jerked the gun from his waistband—tossed it into the woods and stormed away.

“That’s my second favorite gun!” he called after her.

“Then go get it!” she shouted.

But she didn’t turn around.

She didn’t look back.

And she didn’t even think about slowing down.





Chapter Thirty-Five





Him


Sawyer found the gun, but he didn’t see his sanity anywhere.

She knew. She knew and he didn’t have a time machine, so where did that leave him besides cold and hungry and way more terrified than he wanted to admit?

He should have thrown that card overboard, tossed it into the fire. Because the moment she realized what it was, he knew it would change everything. Either she was going to hate him for lying about the card and the bank; or, worse, she was going to insist on going there herself. And now, Sawyer was pretty sure, it was both.

Oh, how he prayed it wasn’t about to be both.

The plan had seemed so simple in Paris: get her someplace safe, take the card. Come back for her if he needed her. But the part he hadn’t counted on was Zoe herself. And at some point, he’d made the cardinal mistake: he’d started to care. He wasn’t supposed to like her, trust her, need her. Want her.

To make matters worse, he’d lied when he should have told the truth and told the truth when he should have lied, and that’s how he ended up freezing and alone and scared out of his mind.

Because right then, Sawyer wasn’t worried about his mission. Not the drive or the card or even Alex. Sawyer was worried about Zoe and what he was going to say when he found her.

Or, worse, what he was going to do if he didn’t.





Her


By “town” Sawyer clearly had meant “living postcard” or “artisanal reenactment.” It wouldn’t have surprised Zoe to learn that the whole place was fake. It was just too perfect with its cute little shops and frozen waterfalls. Smiling people and delicious-smelling food. But this place wasn’t a dream; it was reality. And Zoe couldn’t help but feel just a wee bit bitter about it.

Because Zoe’s reality was an aching head and aching feet and being shot at and strangled and nearly drowned on a regular basis. Plus, she really needed to find a bathroom. Again.

So Zoe walked on, fueled by half a cup of coffee and the knowledge that, for the first time since she woke up in that snowbank, she knew where she had to go and what she was going to do when she got there.