“Where’s Miles?”
“He’ll live. If you’re good.”
“What did you do to him?” I’ll never forgive myself if Miles dies because of me. And his deathwouldbe my fault. I’m the one who got him involved in this. And Agent Grant, too. Why didn’t I call the police?
“He’s taking a nap, stop worrying about him. So you found my brother, huh?”
“Yeah.” I try my best to sound tough. Like I’m not about to piss myself in terror. “Guess you weren’t so smart after all.” Though I’m bluffing, hoping he doesn’t realize I haven’t called the police. Because, yeah, I was worried they’d screw up or wouldn’t investigate before Easton could clean up the body. But maybe I should have called Grant and then them.
Easton scoffs. “Oh, don’t act smug. It wasn’t hard. The fuckingpolicewere supposed to find him, but they didn’t even bother searching over there. Can you believe it? I even left the kayak out!”
Wait, hewantedto get caught? Why?
“Anyway, we’re almost through here, but I have to be honest with you, Nate.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“You wanted to be him. Now I have to kill you like I killed him. But what really pisses me off is... I was kind of hoping you’d be better than him. When you showed up here, telling everyone you were Nate, I looked at you—the way you lied, the way you manipulated everyone—you were so fucking good at it. I mean, I thoughtIwas good.”
That makes me sick. “I’m nothing like you.” But is that true?
Easton laughs. “You absolutely are. You—”
He stops and his eyes go wide as the garage door opener starts running on the other side of the wall.
“Oh shit,” he says, sounding bored. He puts the gun down on the table. “Mommy’s home. What are we going to do about this mess?”
He still has the knife in his other hand, but if I run now—out to the garage and into the car—if I can make it, I might be able to keep him from killing me.
I push the chair away and bolt for the door. But I can sense he’s behind me because of the way the air shifts.
Something sharp hits my neck and my entire body jolts with the shock.
He’s stabbed me, too.
I’ll bleed out like Agent Grant. My legs go wobbly and I fall to the floor. I have to stop the bleeding. Oh God, I don’t want to die.
I put my hand up to my throat, but it’s dry. My hand shakes as I pull it away. There’s no blood.
But the world around me is swimming. If I’m not bleeding, then what’s happening?
I fall to the ground and even though my head hits the tile of the kitchen hard, I don’t feel it. The edges of my vision start to darken, and I see Easton standing over me with the hypodermic needle in his hands. He says something, but it sounds so far away.
The last thing I see is him putting the needle into a vial and pulling out the plunger, refilling the syringe.
Then nothing.
Forty-Seven
Everything is still dark when I wake up. But I’m only half-awake. My head pounds and my mouth is dry. My face is wet, and I know there are tears falling from my eyes, but I don’t know where I am. It’s quiet.
I can’t move my arms. My legs either. Or if I can, they feel like they weigh a million pounds.
Where am I? How did I get here? I try to remember what happened, but I feel drunk. Woozy and numb.
I groan, and though I can’t make out words, I hear something. Someone talking.
Easton.
