Present Day

Ryan follows me to the door of our motel room but doesn’t step outside. I turn around, lean in, and kiss him gently.

“I won’t be long,” I say in a soft voice.

His arms wrap around me, pulling me close. “You sure you’re okay?

Don’t want me to come with you? You may need another getaway driver.”

My laugh is loud enough to feel real. “I wish, but this is something I need to handle alone. Plus, I know you need to check in with work. Gotta keep all those old ladies happy.”

He peppers me with quick kisses while his hands roam. “Call me if you need me.”

One last kiss and I’m walking away.

Ryan watches me from the open doorway until I turn out of the lot. Today is important, and I need to clear my head and remind myself why I’m here. I have some time before my next stop, so I drive around in a random sort of way to center myself.

It also gives me time to identify who’s tailing me and screw with them.

Because I know someone is back there. Since the Tate job, someone has always been there.

My mind wanders back to that job as I cruise through a neighborhood. I think back on that complex security system that guarded some stuffed dead animals, a cabinet of cigars, and not much else. That was not as much a job, but more a twisted game where he pit us all against one another.

Devon had watched that house as religiously as Mama had watched Victor Newman in The Young and the Restless—never missed a second. He studied who came in and out, he made sure I was aware of every camera so I had the least amount of screen time, and he identified every person who came for the painting.

When the painting was delivered and my fee had been deposited, it was time to move on, but I couldn’t stop wondering about the others who showed up and failed. I couldn’t shake my curiosity about who they were and whether they wanted more from life than moving from job to job like I did.

Because Devon is Devon, he sent me exactly what I wanted almost before I had to ask for it. He didn’t even make me feel weird when I said I wanted more than screenshots of them from the video feed, I wanted names and addresses. Mr. Smith sent six of us into that job, and I wanted to meet them all.

That was the first time I had ever been that close to learning who else worked for him, and I didn’t want to waste this opportunity. I knew it was possible that not all of them would want to talk to me, but I was hoping to get to speak to at least a couple of them.

We may have been competitors on the Tate job, but why couldn’t we be allies going forward? This was not the first job that I realized the value of having someone on my team who answered only to me. And this time, I would have been one of the failures if it hadn’t been for Devon. I convinced him that it wouldn’t hurt to reach out to them. We could combine resources. And brainstorm strategies.

We could build a community.

At the end of the search, Devon could only give me one name and address. I drove all the way to Cape San Blas, Florida, between jobs. Walked up to the cutest little pink house, where half a dozen wind chimes hung from the front porch and the doormat had a drawing of the sand and surf, and the words All we do is beach, beach, beach printed on it.

That search for the others who attempted the Tate job and the conversation with the one person I did manage to talk to changed everything for me.

For the first time, I wanted to quit this job, this way of life. Flee and start a new life, one with purpose, like Andrew Marshall spoke of that morning in South Carolina. The shiny gloss of this life had worn away, leaving all the scratches and dents behind. But it isn’t a job where you turn in your two weeks’ notice. Not if I ever wanted to go back to being Lucca Marino and everything else that meant.

So I stayed. I kept taking the jobs he offered like I had an option to refuse them.

When I was sent to Louisiana and given the name Ryan Sumner, I thought I was prepared for the job ahead of me.

In theory, it’s easy to believe I could handle whatever he threw at me.

In reality, there was no way to prepare myself for what he did. Mr.

Smith struck where it hurt the most.

It’s too late to run, so I need to see this through.

I finally arrive at my destination and find a spot to park. After I throw some quarters in the meter, I duck into a CVS to buy a prepaid phone, a single-dose pack of Advil, and a bottle of water. There’s a headache building behind my left eye that I need to get in front of. Leaning against the back of my car, I balance the phone against my shoulder once I hit send so I can use both hands to throw back two pills and chase them with water.

Devon answers on the second ring but doesn’t say a word in greeting. “It’s me,” I say.

“Twenty-One C hotel in one hour. Coffee shop in the lobby.” “Number?”

“Five fifteen.” And then he ends the call.

It’s a short drive to the hotel, and thankfully I find a parking spot around the corner from the front door. In addition to this being a hotel, 21C is also home to a museum, so the lobby is teeming with people and I’m forced to weave through the crowd, dodging rolling bags and swinging briefcases, until I get to the coffee shop that sits to the right of the main entrance. A huge banner hanging over the hall that leads to the convention rooms catches my attention.

REELECT ANDREW MARSHALL—PROMISES MADE, PROMISES KEPT

I skip the long line for coffee and find a small table where I have a good view of the lobby.

Forty-five minutes later, a smile stretches across my face when I see Governor Andrew Marshall stride through the front door. There are quite a few people with him, two who I recognize from my short time in his employ. Early polls show he’ll win his reelection by a landslide, and his name is already being batted around as a potential presidential candidate.

I leave my jacket on the table, so no one takes my place, and walk toward them. He spots me when I’m about ten feet away, and I can see recognition dawn on his face even though I look different than I did six years ago.

He separates from his group and closes the distance between us. “Mia?” he asks.

“Yes, Governor. It’s me.”

“How have you been?” he asks. I can tell he wants to reach out in some way, to hug me or shake my hand, but neither seems right under the circumstances, so he ends up shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I’m good. I’ve been following your career. I couldn’t be prouder.”

He shrugs. “I had some good advice early on that I believe has helped me tremendously.”

I take a deep breath and ask, “Can I speak to you a moment in private?” One of his aides has materialized next to him. “I’m sorry, but Governor

Marshall has a tight schedule. He’s due to speak at a luncheon in just a few minutes.” She has a hand on his arm and is trying to pull him away, but he stops her.

“Margaret, it’s fine. I have a few minutes.”

I gesture to the coffee shop and he follows me back to the table I saved. Once we’re both sitting, he asks, “Are you in trouble? Is that why you’re here?”

I give him a tentative smile. “Maybe a little. I’m okay. For now.”

Andrew leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, his voice dropping to an almost whisper. “I owe you and we both know it. What can I do to help?”

Shaking my head, I say, “I’m not ready to call that favor in yet, just needed to make sure it’s still on the table and you’re still willing to give it.”

We stare at each other while he tries to read me, but I’m giving nothing away. “If it is in my power to help you, I will.”

I nod, knowing this is the best I’m going to get from squeaky-clean Andrew Marshall. “That’s what I needed to hear. And now enough about me and my problems. How are you?”

He leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m good. Balancing the job and the reelection campaign, so it’s a busy time. But I have to ask, Mia, are you good? Happy?”

God, if he only knew. “A few rocky spots left to smooth out, but I’m getting close.”

This gets me a smile finally, although it’s smaller than I wish it was. He glances at his watch, signaling our time is up.

“You need to go,” I say, making it easier for him to leave.

Andrew stands up and pulls a card out of his pocket, then hands it to me. I study it while he says, “My private cell. Just let me know what I need to do.”

And then he’s gone.

I drop back down in my seat and watch him walk away. Holding the card in front of me, I read it over again.

A loud screech pulls my attention from the card, and it lands on the man dragging out the chair Andrew just vacated. It’s George, but instead of the UPS uniform, he’s dressed in a dark suit.

He drops down in the chair, catching the flicker of surprise that washes across my face before I hide it away.

“You look good in a suit.”

He smiles and says, “You’re supposed to be in Atlanta.”

“I’m working my way there. Needed to make a couple of stops first,” I answer.

“What are you doing?” he asks in a soft voice. His concern for me is apparent. “You’re playing with fire. Andrew Marshall won’t do anything that gets his hands dirty, we both know that.”

My eyes never leave George’s face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just passing through town and thought it would be nice to catch up with a few old friends.”

He frowns. “You can lie to everyone else, but don’t lie to me. Not after all this time.”

“Then you don’t ask me questions you know I can’t answer.”

George rubs a hand across his mouth then says, “Mr. Smith thinks you need a bit more incentive.”

I let out a loud, frustrated breath. “You going to send the detectives another picture of me on a public street?”

“Not me,” he says. “I’m just the messenger. The next set of images will make it increasingly hard to get you out of trouble. He’s not playing around.”

I nod slowly, considering his words. “Any other messages you need to deliver?”

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he really thinks about what he wants to say. “Just one from me. Head to Atlanta. You can still make it to the bank and get into that safe deposit box by tomorrow afternoon. Give him what he wants. I don’t want to do what he’ll ask me to do if you don’t. Please, Lucca.”

This knocks me back a bit. This is the most candid he’s ever been with

me.

All I say is, “Thanks for the heads-up.”

I stay in my seat while he rises from his. “Tell your guy he’s getting sloppy. I clocked him coming in through the service entrance in a maintenance uniform.”

He always calls Devon “my guy.” Devon and George have played their own cat-and-mouse game over the years, trying to figure out who the other one really is, but I don’t think either have been successful. At least I know Devon hasn’t been.

“Wish we could have gotten that drink,” I say.

He laughs. “Get your ass to Atlanta and maybe we can.” Just as he’s about to walk away, he turns and adds, “Good luck.”

I shrug and give him a smile. “Who needs luck?” His laugh carries with him out of the coffee shop.

I sit frozen in my seat another ten minutes, running through our conversation over and over.

The urge to run floods my system.

But running means I’m looking over my shoulder not only for Mr.

Smith but for the police for the rest of my life.

Finally, I get up and head to the elevators. I hit the button for the eighth floor once I’m inside. I walk down the hall to the door that leads to the stairway. I go up and down by elevator and stairs three more times until I end up on the fifth floor and I’m positive no one is following. Knowing Devon, he’s had the cameras monitoring this floor on loop before he walked into the hotel.

I knock on the door to room 515.

Devon opens the door and says, “The look of shock when George sat down was a nice touch.”

“He told me in Fort Worth that ‘eyes are everywhere,’ but I never know if it’s him or someone else watching, so I was a little surprised when he sat down.” I sit in the chair next to him. “He said you’re losing your touch. Saw you come in through the service entrance.”

Devon’s upper lip curls back. “Does he think I just coincidentally entered the building the second y’all arrived?” He rolls his eyes and adds, “He only spots me when I want him to.”

Devon has a monitor and printer set up on the hotel room desk, and I study the images he has on the screen. Andrew and I are in the frame but we are not the main focus. George is. While I’m chatting with Andrew, he’s in

the lobby, sitting in a wingback chair, holding up a newspaper but watching me.

“I’m assuming George got audio too. Was he able to hear everything Andrew and I said?”

Devon pushes another couple of buttons and replays the conversation between Andrew and me. “Yeah, the old man in the Titans cap. Guessing the mic was in his cane since he handed it over to George on the sidewalk outside the hotel after he left the table.”

I find him on the screen and sure enough, the cane is leaning against his table, angled toward me.

“I wasn’t sure how Andrew would react when he saw me, but it was the best I could have hoped for,” I say. It was a risk coming here, but it was clear six years ago that he felt like he owed me one so I was confident that sentiment would resurface. I just needed him to say it out loud, and he didn’t let me down. I’m also sure Mr. Smith will interpret it the way I want him to. He won’t think Andrew would help me just because he’s a nice guy, he’ll think Andrew has to because I’ve got something on him. Mr. Smith always thought I got dirt on Andrew Marshall but kept it for myself. Which is why it’s so easy for him to believe I did the same with the info on Victor Connolly. He thinks I retrieved it from Amy Holder and kept it for myself instead of turning it over to him.

Renting the safe deposit box seems to be what threw my loyalty into doubt.

And a guilty verdict means the only thing keeping me from taking a nose dive into the nearest body of water is the contents of a 5 x 7-inch box locked behind a bank vault door.

“Is Connolly just sitting back and waiting or should we be worried about him?” I ask.

A few keystrokes and the screen changes. “So far he’s sitting back, but I’m keeping a close eye on him.”

I stare at a picture of the man in question. From my own research, I know he’s sixty-seven, but he looks older in the images Devon has collected. What little bit of hair he has left is completely white, and years and years of sun exposure have not been kind to his skin. But while he may look like he’s some aging old man, there’s no doubt he’s extremely dangerous.

Connolly’s businesses are a mix of legitimate and illegitimate, as you would expect. You have to show how you can afford the fancy cars and private planes and houses scattered around the country. But the substantial income he claims on his tax return is nothing compared to what he brings in through nefarious means.

This is why Mr. Smith is going to such great lengths to make sure Victor Connolly remains a happy client.

And I don’t need Mr. Smith making me the sacrificial lamb to Connolly if he starts to become unhappy.

So now Devon and I are on the offensive.

I knew Mr. Smith had more evidence against me, but I didn’t want to wait until I was sitting across from those detectives to find out what it was, so I’m forcing him to burn it now. He thinks he’s going to scare me by sharing the rest of what he has on me with the police, but I’m glad I’m flushing it out while I can still do something about it. While I still have a chance to run if I need to.

“How soon before you have Mr. Smith identified?” I ask.

The detour to Oxford had three purposes. First, I wanted to look a bit unhinged. Wanted Mr. Smith to feel like I was out of control and worry about where I would go next. It’s harder to anticipate a person’s next move when they are acting erratically.

Second, we needed to determine how clients get in touch with him. I knew Coach Mitch would only have one person to turn to when I came knocking. Hello, King Harvest.

And lastly, we still don’t have Mr. Smith’s true identity, and we need that more than anything else. By discovering the fan site and Mr. Smith’s username, Devon is backing his way through the system, hoping to find something that will lead us to him.

“I’m close,” is all he says and I don’t push for more.

He pulls out the handwritten pages I left for him under the Twinkies yesterday. “It’s not your fault he killed the woman and James.”

I nod even though I should have known he’d go to those lengths and I should have said more to her that night before she left. Warned her in some way.

“You still think we should bail?”

He takes in a deep breath then lets it out while his eyes scan my face. “I’d rather bail and regroup than continue down a path that leads to you

either being thrown in jail or killed.”

I’m shaking my head before he finishes. “Bailing now doesn’t save me from either of those options.”

The ding from the computer behind him interrupts whatever he was going to say. An alert has him changing the screen to show he’s finally gotten into the Atlanta PD system.

“I’ll pull up the file on Amy Holder and we can see what they’ve got.” A few images fill the screen, and Devon says, “According to the dates of these entries, these images were uploaded a month before you got to Lake Forbing, so they have to be the ones that supported the material witness warrant.”

We both move closer to the screen to get a better look.

“This pic of you dragging Amy from the car is not your finest moment,” he says.

“It couldn’t be helped.”

He continues to click through the images. “You do a really good job of angling yourself away from the camera. Did you know where your shadow was?”

George is rarely the one who follows me around during jobs unless it’s a particularly important one like when I was on my own for the first time for the Coach Mitch job. Being my shadow has a lot of down time and I’m sure he’s got more important things to do. Most times I can pick out who’s watching me, but other times, like that night, I couldn’t. It was too dark to see anything farther than three feet away.

Shaking my head, I say, “No. I mean, in most of these situations, I had a good guess of where they would be . . . where I would be if I was the one watching.”

“Okay, here we go. New images were just added to her file, so let’s see what Smith sent in. You must have really pissed him off. He didn’t waste any time.”

The note attached to the pics makes it look like it was sent by a detective from another department who stumbled on this critical piece of evidence while investigating another case. And while Devon could probably wipe it from their server right now, Mr. Smith would just resend it later. Best to leave it in play.

With a few keystrokes, we can see the latest piece of evidence against

me.

It’s a video.

He pushes play and there I am.