Page 359 of Faking the Goal

In seventeen minutes, Conrad will arrive.

Or rather, Charlie will.

Charlie, wearing Conrad's smile. Conrad's clothes. Conrad's gentle, concerned expression. Charlie, pretending to bring the girlfriend who does not exist to a dinner that was never supposed to be real.

I draw in a slow breath through my nose and release it through my mouth.

In. Out. Again.

It does absolutely nothing.

Detective Matthews's instructions have been looping through my head since he left this afternoon, each one repeating with the maddening precision of a recorded announcement.

Do not confront him about his identity.

Do not let him know we suspect anything.

Keep him talking. Keep him calm.

Get him to admit to the stalking and the attack three weeks ago.

His team is already in position. They have been for nearly an hour. Two officers are covering the short exterior corridor outside my unit, hidden far enough away that Charlie will not see them when he comes in. Once he crosses my threshold, my front door will become the only way in or out of the apartment.

There are no windows large enough to climb through down here. No second door. No fire escape tucked behind the bed. My studio is the only residential unit on this side of the ground floor, wedged between the building's utility room and a locked storage area, which means there is nowhere for Charlie to go once the police close in.

At least, that is the plan.

Another team is positioned around the building itself, covering the front entrance, the side service door, and the rear alley in case he somehow realizes what is happening before he reaches my apartment and tries to run.

The cameras Detective Matthews's team installed are already recording. One is hidden above the bookcase. Another is tucked between the mismatched containers on top of my kitchen cabinets. A third has a clear view of the front door and the small table where I am supposedly going to serve dinner.

They can see everything.

They can hear everything.

Matthews promised that the moment Charlie gives them enough—or the moment I appear to be in danger—they will be through the door before he has time to react.

I know all of that.

I repeat it to myself again and again, gripping each fact like a rung on a ladder suspended over a bottomless pit.

It still does not make me feel safe.

Because in fifteen minutes, I will be alone in this room with the person who has spent years trying to ruin my life.

For the past two weeks, I have had to look at him and pretend I do not know.

I have smiled when Conrad appeared outside the café to drive me home. I have forced myself not to recoil when he put a hand against the small of my back or touched my elbow while guiding me across the street. I have sat beside him in his car, and nodded along while he asked whether I was sleeping better.

Sleeping better.

As though he had not been the reason I woke up gasping every night.

As though he had not watched me become afraid and then offered himself as the person who could make me feel safe.

More than once, I nearly threw up when he hugged me goodbye.

Every friendly touch felt contaminated once I knew whose hands they really belonged to. Each time his fingers brushed mine, I had to remind myself not to flinch. Not to pull away too quickly. Not to let disgust show on my face while the cameras and officers tracking him waited for enough evidence to prove what we already knew.