Andrew works the room with one eye on his watch as he counts down the minutes until this is over. The booze is flowing freely, thanks to the girls I brought in to serve it. I hand Andrew a beer and he nods his thanks. He rarely drinks, but when he does, it’s always a Miller Lite. Just one.
He sips his beer then says quietly, “Not sure I would have invited Senator Nelson or Congressman Burke.”
I’m not surprised by his comment. Both are self-serving pricks, but then so are all the men I’ve invited here tonight. “I know, but this is part of playing the game. Like it or not, these are the guys who have the most pull.”
I nod to one of the girls and the music becomes a little louder. Ties are being loosened. Hands start to stray.
Andrew senses the change in the party, and he looks at me in confusion. He’s also sweating a little. His eyes glazing over.
He leans in close. “Maybe we should call it a night. I’m not feeling good.”
I give him a sympathetic look. “You don’t look good. Let’s get you some air.” I lead him to the balcony, then help him onto the lounge chair. By the time his head hits the headrest, he’s out. The beer in his hand falls to the floor, the spiked liquid spreading across the tile.
“Sorry, Andrew,” I whisper, then head back into the party. It’s time for the girls to make their move.
Chapter 15
Present Day
As soon as I’ve finished packing up the woman’s things, we’re finally able to leave the Bernards’ house after promising to come back tomorrow to help plan the memorial service for James. That’s a visit I will happily let Ryan make alone, since I’d gathered everything I could on Lucca from there.
Ryan drives while I scroll Instagram, stopping on Southern Living’s latest post, which showcases a beautiful front porch complete with a white wooden swing and hanging ferns. It’s a gorgeous shot. Clicking the comment button, I type: What a perfect spot for a get-together with a glass of wine! It’s five o’clock somewhere!
I keep scrolling once my comment loads until I’m all caught up, then stuff my phone in my purse.
As soon as we enter Ryan’s house, he launches himself on the couch in the den, landing facedown. When I sit next to him, Ryan raises his head up just enough for me to scoot closer so he can rest it on my lap. His eyes fall closed as I gently run my fingers through his hair. Neither of us feels the need to speak.
As I stare down at him, I think about this latest development, now that the initial shock of their deaths has lessened.
There are only two options to consider.
First, the crash was a terrible accident that took the lives of two people.
Second, killing them was a deliberate move by my boss.
My gut is saying it’s the second option, while my brain is trying to come up with the reasons why he would make that move. It didn’t look like she was finished with this job. Her training for this identity—my identity—was extensive, and it seems premature to take her out now. And why kill them instead of just pulling them from the job? I can’t get past the timing.
What does killing them accomplish? Lucca Marino from Eden, North Carolina, is dead.
I made no secret that I fiercely protected my true identity. In that first year, Matt would start every conversation with small talk when he would call to discuss my next job, and I was dumb enough to believe we were friends. My plans of reclaiming my identity to live as Lucca Marino were the one constant topic. I even told him about the house I would build and the garden I would plant.
But her death does not stop me from reclaiming the Lucca Marino identity. It makes it difficult, but not impossible. Killing her off was an extreme move and not one Devon or I anticipated. Mr. Smith said she was sent as a reminder, but I didn’t need a reminder of how dangerous this game is.
Which brings me back to the possibility—and hope—that it really was an accident.
And then there’s Ryan.
What does it mean for this job if it wasn’t an accident?
His grip on me loosens and he lets out a soft snore. Today took a toll on him.
Slowly, I unlatch Ryan from my waist and slide out from underneath him, replacing my lap with a throw pillow. Between the hangover I know he had this morning and the stress of the day, he doesn’t even flinch.
A glance at the clock on the oven tells me it’s time to get going. I hope Devon will be waiting for me so we can go over everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours.
In six years of working together, Devon and I have come a long way. He knows exactly who I am and where I came from, and I have made the extremely short list of those he has trusted with who he really is and the details of his past. In fact, I believe there are only three of us on that list.