He steps from the Cadillac, all confidence and swagger, straightening his suit jacket, buttoning it. I smirk, because even from here, he’s giving off entitled asshole vibes. His back is to me, and I hold my camera at the ready, zoomed in. I’ll get a great shot of his face the moment he glances my direction.
I ready my finger over the camera’s button.
He says something to the driver, palms him what I imagine is a tip. The driver gives him a nod and shuts the door.
Finally, the man turns, giving me his profile. I hit the shutter button fast, one, two, three—his features a blur as the shutter snaps repeatedly. I wait for him to turn my way so I can get a solid photo of his face. I’ll be able to enter it in a search, figure out who hereally is and what horrible things he’s done that have placed him on someone’s kill list.
But when he glances my direction, I don’t push the button. I don’t snap the photo. And I won’t need to look up who he is.
Because I already know.
Chapter Sixteen
I turn on my heeland hurry toward the rental car. I don’t look back, don’t check to see if he spotted me—I’m pretty sure he didn’t—and tuck myself into the now-sweltering Toyota Camry. The leather sticks to my skin and burns. I ignore it, too consumed with a buzzing in my brain, a siren wailing in my head that something is wrong, very wrong.
I start up the car and reverse out of the parking spot without waiting for the AC to kick in, zooming toward the highway.
I’m not sure I even breathe again until I hit seventy-five miles per hour, steadying myself in the center lane.
Were cops not waiting to pull over speeders, if a gun was not tucked beneath my seat, I’d press the gas pedal down harder, drive faster, let the rush of speed replace the cold flush of…whatever emotion this is, seeping through my pores.
Fear, I realize. Cold, plain fear.
Finally, I let myself acknowledge who that man was.
Brian. It wasBrian.
Myhusband.
Or—I pause to consider—maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he justlooks really similar. They say everyone has a twin, right? Or perhaps it was a trick of the light, the angle at which—
I smack the dash, pain vibrating through my palm. The ache settles me, lets me focus on driving and staying in control of the car. Of myself.
The man I sleep beside each night.
The father of my children.
My companion in life, who I drink coffee with on our back patio and beer with on date nights and apparently…
My next hit.
It doesn’t make sense. It can’t possibly behim. My Brian is in Washington, DC. He called me from there, sent me photos of himself in front of the White House, the freaking cherry blossom trees that bloom every spring. He checked in, apologized for putting me on the spot. He even called from a hotel room last night and FaceTimed with the girls. I have a normal, healthy marriage, one that keeps me sane, keeps my feet planted firmly on the ground and not in Killersville, USA.
Unless I don’t.
Unless it’s all a lie.
My hands tremble on the steering wheel, and I focus on the road, on fleeing Austin and returning to San Antonio. When I turn off the highway, I follow the winding suburban street back to my neighborhood, but I don’t go home. Instead, I drive to a park, a broad expanse of green surrounded by forest. Teenagers play soccer in one corner, a mother jogs with a stroller on the path that lines the edge of the grass.
This is a mistake.I’vemade a mistake.
I shut off the engine and get out of the car, pacing back and forth over the concrete of the parking lot. It wasn’t him. It can’t be. And I’ve just lost my mark, a total newbie move, something Ihaven’t done in years. I should have followed him, should have learned his patterns. Instead, I ran.
Still, I can’t shake who I saw—my husband, I’d swear it. I pull out my DSLR camera, peer at the tiny screen as I flick back through the last several photos. Photos of the man’s profile. His jawline, the trace of a beard, a smile as he spoke to the woman. And blond, floppy hair, just like Brian’s. Itlookslike him. It really does. My body is practically numb, my hands drip with nervous sweat.
I can kill someone without so much as blinking, but this—this has me all sorts of mixed-up.
I snatch up my phone, hit the call button on Brian’s contact info. I need to hear his voice, to know he is out there, that we are okay.
