The Blonde Identity (61)

Like that was all it had been . . . for her.

Sawyer knew how to protect himself. What to guard and where to shield and all the little ways to keep from bleeding out. But right then . . . He’d never felt more vulnerable in his life.

“Okay.” He stood. “Fine. But you’re still not going to the bank.”

“You said—”

“I said we’d check it out. That means recon, maybe a good old-fashioned stakeout.”

“But—”

“They want to kill you!” The words were already echoing off the high ceiling and frosty glass. “What about that do you not get? They want you dead. They want Alex dead. If anything happened to you . . . If you think I’m letting you walk into a place they are absolutely watching, then—”

“How do you know they’ll be watching the bank?” she shot back. “Did you know Alex had a box there? Heck, do we know Alex has a box there? For all we know, that could be where I store my first edition Pride and Prejudice or my collection of autographed baseball cards or the top secret potion I’ve been making in my lab because I’m the world’s foremost love scientist.”

“Love scientist?” He really hated how much he wanted to laugh.

“How do you know? Tell me.”

It shouldn’t have been so hard to say, “I didn’t know Alex had a box there. No. But—”

“Then they probably don’t know either!”

Sawyer couldn’t look at her smirking mouth without wanting to kiss it. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.” He glanced down at the clothes on the table. “Where did you get black leather pants? Correction. Why did you get black leather—”

“I’m trying to look like a spy.”

“Spies don’t actually . . .” But he trailed off and shook his head. “You know what, never mind.”

He dropped into a chair. Sure, he’d had more consecutive hours of sleep in the past day than he’d had in the past year, but he was the kind of tired that sleep itself wouldn’t fix. And Zoe was too. He could see it in her eyes and the set of her shoulders, in the way she had picked at her fingernail until it was red and sore.

“I have to do this. Don’t you see? If the world is trying to kill me because they think I’m Alex, then, narratively speaking—”

“That’s not a real thing—”

“—the only way out is for me to be Alex.”

She couldn’t have been more serious. And, worse, a part of him was terrified she was also right. “How are you supposed to be a sister you don’t even remember?”

“Easy. You’re going to teach me.”





Chapter Forty-Eight





Her



How to Be Your Own Twin Sister

A List by Zoe Whatsername

Don’t smile unless you’re flirting.

Don’t flirt unless you’re desperate.

Don’t enter any room you don’t have three different ways to exit.

Don’t walk too quickly.

Don’t walk too slowly.

Always know what’s behind you.

Never, ever check your tail.

If you have to shoot, it’s probably already too late.

So, whatever you do, don’t miss.





As Zoe drew a deep breath and looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, she couldn’t help but think about Paris. She remembered staring through that darkened window, watching Alex on TV—the way their faces had overlapped and all she’d seen were the ways they were alike. But three days later, she was acutely, terribly, overwhelmingly aware of how much they were different.

So she was more than a little nervous as she tucked a strand of too-red hair behind her ear and opened the door.

“Hey!” Sawyer called from the kitchen. “I was thinking, since we don’t know what kind of cover Alex was using, we should . . .”

He trailed off.

He looked.

He stared.

He seemed at risk of maybe—possibly—swallowing his own tongue.

Or at least that was how it felt to Zoe as she stood in those skintight clothes, wondering, Is he dumbfounded in the good way or is he dumbfounded in the bad way and how will I ever know and does it even matter and—

“That’s . . . um . . . you’re . . .” Eventually, he crossed his arms and made a noise she hadn’t heard since she’d come out in Mrs. Michaelson’s unzipped dress. “Yeah. No one is going to think you’re pregnant in that.”

He had a point. Tight black leather. A top that barely reached her waistband so she really wanted to slouch but #38 on the HOW TO BE LIKE ALEX list was “be inferior to no one” so that kind of seemed posture-specific and Zoe didn’t want to risk it.

So she threw her shoulders back. She tried to walk, but her pants were ridiculously tight. And her boots were ridiculously tall. And she felt . . . well . . . ridiculous.

“How does Alex walk in these things?” She looked down at her new boots. “And does she always wear her pants this tight?”

He tensed. “Why do I feel like this is a trick question?” he asked but Zoe was already stretching and bending and . . .

“I have a feeling they’re too tight? Does Alex really fight like . . .” She tried to kick but almost fell as she twisted, looking. “Did my pants split open? How does Alex do this? How does she fight and walk and stay alive in pants that are constantly on the verge of splitting . . .”