“Did the woman pretending to be me know what was going to happen to her when she took the job? Did you tell her it was a death sentence?”
“That woman was an unfortunate casualty. She had potential. But I’m always prepared to make the hard decisions. The Holder job is more important.”
And there it is. Confirmation that their deaths weren’t an accident. “Did she even finish the job you sent her on? Or did she let you down in some way?”
“She was sent to unnerve you. And she did. She was sent to make a name for herself as Lucca Marino. And she did. She was sent to dinner that night to make sure you were the last person to see her alive so the police would have no choice but to question your evening together. I thought I’d have to step in to make sure they became aware of the warrant out for you, but you made that easy on me too. Her snooping through your stuff was to get under your skin because I knew how much you’d hate that. The spreadsheet you left for her to find gave me a little laugh, though. Nicely played.”
The urge to scream at him and throw this phone until it breaks into a million pieces rolls through me, but I can’t show him how gutted I feel.
“What guarantees do I have that I won’t end up like her? She came in here to do a job and what thanks does she get? A nose dive off a bridge.”
“I can guarantee you will meet the same fate if you fail to deliver what I send you for a second time.” His tone softens when he adds, “I know you’ll do whatever is necessary to get that fairy-tale ending you’ve always wanted. Big house and garden you and Mama planned all those years ago while she was wasting away in that single wide. You can still have all that. I can make Evie Porter a distant memory and bring Lucca Marino back from the dead if you give me what I want.”
Does he honestly think I would believe that’s a possible outcome?
“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you—Atlanta was a bust. Whatever you wanted from Amy Holder, she took with her to the grave. That safe deposit box does not hold what you think it does.”
He waits a beat, then says, “This number will be disconnected the second this call ends. You know how it works. If you don’t meet my associate in the hotel lobby at the designated time, I’ll be forced to give the Atlanta PD everything I have. Those pictures are just a preview of the main show. You can still run, but you’re not a ghost anymore.” He adds one last thing before ending the call. “And the cops won’t be the only ones hunting you down.”
And then the line goes dead. I don’t try to call back, because he doesn’t make empty threats.
I take the paper he left me to the bathroom, drop it in the sink, then pull out the lighter I keep for the candles next to the tub. It only takes a few minutes for it to turn to ash. I wash away all traces of it before the smoke sets off any alarms.
Turning the shower on as hot as I can stand, I undress and step under the spray, desperately needing to wash the last several hours away.
There are a lot of questions that need answers.
There are a lot of emotions I’ll need to sift through. The anger that the man I’ve worked for all these years has turned against me in a way I could never imagine. The disappointment that washed over me upon hearing he built an identity for me from the beginning for the sole purpose of tearing me down. The bitterness that filled me when I discovered he was planning for my demise from the very first job. It all hits harder than I thought it would. Harder than I was prepared for.
But the part that’s hitting me the hardest is the death of the woman. She came in and did her job. It’s my fault she’s dead. That James is dead. If I wasn’t playing this game with Mr. Smith, she’d still be alive.
I scrub every inch of my body. Shampoo my hair. Wash my face. Anything to feel clean.
Her death sits heavy on my shoulders, it fills my lungs, it clouds my vision.
The bathroom door squeaks open, making me jump, even though I expect Ryan to come in to check on me once he gets back from his office.
Steam has fogged the glass, so I can’t make out his details until he opens the door. A line appears in the middle of his forehead as he stares at me. His expression is one I can’t read. Just when I think he’ll walk away, he quietly undresses and joins me. He takes the washcloth from me before turning me toward the shower wall. One hand lands on my hip, holding me in place, while the other runs the cloth in long, sweeping passes along my back and shoulders.
I turn back around and bury my face in his chest while the water rains down around us. And I cry. Once I start, I can’t stop. Big, broken sobs that wreck me.