The Blonde Identity: A Novel

The balcony led to a vacant room that must have been a restaurant. It was all glass and chrome and rich, soft leather. She wanted to lie down in the round booth in the corner and sleep for a thousand years. She wanted to make snow angels on the plush carpet.

Carpet angels, she thought. Those had to be a thing.

But she stayed behind Sawyer because if she was in front of Sawyer there was no guarantee he wouldn’t look at her butt again and he’d probably seen enough of that for a lifetime. So behind Sawyer it was.

And Sawyer kept moving. Through the nice, empty restaurant and out the doors, then down the walkway that ran along the edge of the ship, water rippling beside them.

“Okay,” he said, voice low. “Stay on my six. Keep your head down and don’t engage. The water is cold but not freezing. If you have to, jump. Then—”

“Head to the nearest Metro station, take the first eastbound train three stops and wait.”

He looked back at her, an annoyed gleam in his eye. “I’m trying to decide if you’re being sarcastic.”

She actually had to think about the answer. “You know? I think I might always be a little sarcastic?”

He looked like he preferred being shot at as he mumbled, “Great.”

They crept farther down the deck, but eventually he raised a fist into the air as if she was supposed to know what that meant.

“What does that—” She heard it then, the tinkling of glasses and the low hum of small talk floating up from somewhere below.

“Back up,” he said and she spun, but it was too late. The woman from before was already heading toward them, a very skeptical look on her face.

“Hello. I’m afraid you’re on the wrong deck, the captain’s reception is in the promenade lounge—one floor down.”

She saw his hand inching toward his waistband—and the gun. Not that he was going to use it . . . Surely he wasn’t going to use it! But it was probably like breathing to him. Like saying excuse me whenever you heard a sneeze. But still . . . gun! And she couldn’t help herself, she lunged between him and the woman who was carrying a tray of . . . ooh! Shrimp!

“Yes. Right. We were just exploring the boat. Or ship? You call it a ship, don’t you? I get so confused. Jet lag! Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” She cast a too-big grin over her shoulder at Sawyer.

“Yes,” he said coldly.

She watched the woman—Melanie—take in her ripped tights and too big coat. Their tired eyes and windblown hair. “I thought I knew everyone on board, but . . .”

“Oh!” She didn’t know where the words came from—she just knew it was too late to hold them back. “We were running soooooo late. First, our flight was canceled. The weather! Who knew Paris got blizzards? Then we got a different flight on a different airline into a different airport. But the car service had a flat tire—we are never using them again, let me tell you. And, well, long story short, we made it! Didn’t we, sweetheart?”

She gave Sawyer a pointed look, but his reply was the same flat, “Yes.”

“Whew. Needless to say, we are so glad to be here! Are you Melanie? They told us we’d need to talk to Melanie?”

But Melanie looked leery. And confused. “I’m sorry, who told you?”

“Oh, I don’t think I got his name.” She looked back at Sawyer like, surely, between the two of them they could remember. “It was a man. And he was European.”

She was willing to bet her life savings—all four euros’ worth—that most of the staff was European, and the beleaguered look on Melanie’s face told her she was right.

“Oh, well, yes. I usually greet most guests, Mr. and Mrs. . . .”

“Oh, didn’t I say?” She didn’t have to turn around to know that Sawyer was reaching for his gun again—or maybe he was just getting ready to toss her overboard. In any case, she didn’t see any choice but to exclaim, “We’re the Michaelsons!”