The Blonde Identity (63)

“No. But that doesn’t mean I’ve never been here, considering . . .” She pointed toward her empty head. Her stupid, worthless, fallow brain.

“Hey. It’s okay. We always knew this was a long shot.” They were stopped at a red light and he was staring at her. It was like he knew what she was thinking—like he could read her mind. Oh, how she wished he could read her mind. Maybe then he could tell her all the things she didn’t know.

They’d been circling the bank for an hour, and the sun was getting lower—the sky darker. Streetlights were starting to glow in the twilight, and Zoe could feel the sands in the hourglass—a drip-drip-drip that told her they were running out of time.

So she wasn’t surprised when Sawyer parked the SUV and looked at her. “Are you sure about this?”

“No?” she said without thinking. “I mean yes. I mean . . .” She looked at him again but didn’t say another word. She just reached for the door.

“Zo—” he started, but she was already walking away.

He caught up with her in the small park across from the even smaller bank, staring at the building on the opposite corner. With its old stone walls and stained-glass windows, it didn’t look like a business—more like the kind of house that belonged to someone with roman numerals after their name.

“Are you sure that’s a bank?” she had to ask him.

“Yes.”

“Because it looks like a club. You know, the kind that has tufted leather chairs and everything smells like cigar smoke.”

“It’s not.”

“Maybe a really high-end brothel?”

He coughed and shook his head and mumbled something that sounded a lot like what am I going to do with you? but he said, “It’s a bank.”

“But—”

“I promise. It’s a bank. A Swiss bank. So I guess it is a club, of a sort. Very exclusive. Very private.” He was quiet for a moment before adding, “This one has a reputation for being a little . . . intense. I’m not surprised Alex picked it. Now, you’ve got your card?”

She pulled the thin black card out of the pocket of her too-tight pants. “Got it!”

“Okay.” Sawyer‘s voice turned harder, colder. In that moment, he wasn’t the man who had kissed her, held her, teased her. He was the man with a dozen different safe houses and fifty Go Bags on three continents. “Walk me through it.”

“I go in. Give them Alex’s name—”

“No names,” he reminded her.

“Right. Swiss bank.”

“They’ll either scan your card or ask for your number. The most important thing is the number,” he told her, even though they’d already been through this a dozen times.

They’d found a black light among Sawyer’s father’s arsenal at the cabin, and as soon as they held the card beneath it, a twelve-digit number had appeared. Sawyer had made Zoe memorize it, drilling it into her over and over. She didn’t know her address or her Social Security number or if she had a cat or whether or not someone was, hopefully, feeding her possibly nonexistent cat . . . But she was going to remember that number for the rest of her life.

“They’ll confirm you’re Alex and take you to your box. Don’t bother going through the contents in there. Just bring everything back here. We’ll go over it later. What matters now is getting in and getting out. Alive.” He gripped her arms as he finished. “Don’t talk to anyone you don’t have to talk to. Don’t look directly into any cameras. Walk like you own the place. Just, remember, you belong there. And you’re a badass.”

“Right. Because I’m Alex.”

“No.” He was looking at her strangely, cocking his head like isn’t it obvious? “Because you’re you.”

His hand was in her hair then. She wanted to lean into his warmth, but he surprised her by tucking something in her ear. “Comms unit. We can communicate through these. Don’t try talking to me, but I can talk to you—try to walk you through it.”

“Wait.” Something occurred to her. “Why aren’t you going with me? Just go with me.”

But he was shaking his head. “I wouldn’t go with Alex . . .”

Her voice cracked a little when she said, “And I’m Alex. Maybe.” Then she couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s gonna be hilarious if that really is my box.”

He flashed a crooked grin. “Yeah. Maybe you’ll find all the diamond necklaces you stole.”

She should have smiled or laughed. It was her turn to tease, but instead she found herself blurting out the words she’d spent all day trying not to say. “What happens if they know it’s not my box? If they know I’m an imposter? If—”

“You’ll be detained and arrested,” he said calmly. “But that’s not going to happen. Hey. Listen to me. The first thing they teach at spy school is to let people’s assumptions do the heavy lifting. The bank is small and people will recognize you. That’s why you’re wearing that crazy wig. We want them to recognize you and immediately associate you with Alex. But their business was built on anonymity, so you’re gonna walk in there and they’re gonna see what they want to see, and then they’re gonna leave you alone.”