Like he knows me better than I know myself.
"So many questions," he says softly, leaning forward as well, close enough now that I can smell his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, the scent from my perfume that shouldn't be on him but is. "Let's start with the easy one. My name is Nathan Hale."
The name means nothing to me. I shake my head, frustrated and terrified. "Should I know you?"
"Not as I am now." He reaches for a glass of whiskey sitting on the table, his movements fluid and controlled. "But you knew me once. A long time ago."
My stomach tightens with a fear I can't name. "What are you talking about?"
He gestures to the maître d', who's been hovering discreetly nearby. "We'll take the private library, James. Ensure we're not disturbed."
"Of course, Mr. Hale."
Wait. No. I should leave. I should run.
But I don't. I follow him.
***
The library is smaller, more intimate—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, leather furniture, a fireplace crackling softly. It's the kind of room designed for secrets, for conversations that can't happen in public.
Nathan closes the door behind us, and the soft click of the lock makes my heart race. We're alone now. Truly alone. If I screamed, would anyone hear? Would anyone care?
But he doesn't move toward me. Instead, he walks to the fireplace, his back to me for a moment. And when he speaks, his voice is different—heavier, weighted with something that might be grief.
"Sixteen years ago, I was in a car accident," he says quietly. "The driver—my best friend—was killed instantly. I survived. Barely."
The world tilts sickeningly beneath my feet. No. It's not possible.
"The crash left me in a coma for three months," he continues, still not looking at me. "When I woke up, your parents refused to acknowledge that I was still alive. They wanted me to be dead. Just like their son. They blamed me for his death."
My hands start shaking. I know this story. I know it because it destroyed my family, because it's the nightmare that never ends.
"They were right to blame me," he says, his voice raw with something that sounds like self-hatred.
"Your brother called me Nate," he says, finally turning to face me. "I've changed my name since. It's Nathan now. Nathan Hale."
No.
No, no, no.
The room spins. I grab the back of a chair for support as memories flood through me—a lanky teenage boy with long, dark hair and green eyes, always at our house, always making Alex laugh. Always looking at me like I was something precious.
Nate. Alex's shadow, his partner in crime, his best friend.
"No," I whisper, but it's a weak protest. Because now that he's said it, I can see it—the shape of that teenage boy in the man's face, the eyes that haven't changed, the way he stands that tugs at ancient memories buried deep.
"Your brother was the best person I ever knew," Nathan says, his voice raw and broken. "And I killed him. I was in the car. I should have stopped him from driving, should have seen how drunk he was, should have—"
"Stop." The word comes out sharp, cutting, desperate. "Just stop."
He falls silent, watching me with those familiar-unfamiliar eyes as I try to process this impossible information. Nate. Alex's Nate. Alive. Here. My stalker.
It's too much. It's insane.
I can't breathe.
"You've been watching me," I say, the words hollow. "All this time. Why?"
