The Blonde Identity: A Novel

The first thing Zoe thought when she heard the screaming was, Oh no. Not again. She was almost disappointed to stir awake and realize that the enemy Sawyer was fighting was himself.

“No!” He tossed on the cold, hard floor. “No!”

“Sawyer.” She reached for his arm.

“No!”

“Saw—”

He grabbed her and slammed her to the ground, so close to the flames that sparks flew up like fireflies.

“Sawyer!” She saw the knife. She felt his rage, and she knew—she just knew—that he wasn’t her Mr. Michaelson then.

“Sawyer, wake up!” she shouted, and the fire crackled and something in him started to fracture—reality seeping through—like they were back in that river and he was slowly floating toward the surface, looking for some air.

“Hey,” she tried softly. “Hey, you’re okay.”

“Zoe.” It wasn’t a question. It was a reminder.

“Yeah.” She hated the look in his eyes. “You’re okay.”

“I know.” He pushed away a little too hard. “Fire’s going out. I’ll get more wood.”

“That’s not why I woke you, and I think you know that.” He looked at her over his shoulder as he pulled on his dry tuxedo pants. “Sawyer. Talk to me.”

But he was busting apart an old chair and tossing the legs on the fire. “That ought to keep us until morning.”

“Sawyer, tell me.”

He hunched low, bare feet on the cold ground, like he might bolt outside and take off through the snow—like anything would be better than being there.

“Sawyer—”

He wheeled on her. “There’s a reason I don’t sleep, Zoe. But you should. Go back to bed.” He reached for the tuxedo shirt and tried to pull it on, but he fumbled with the studs.

“Here.” She pushed his hands away and let her delicate fingers dance over the buttons. “At least you got a nice tuxedo out of the deal.”

He huffed out a cold, dry laugh. “Lot of good it’ll do me.”

She must have looked confused because he turned to stare into the fire.

“It’s not like the movies. My job . . . it’s not parachuting onto embassies or playing high-stakes poker . . . My job is using people.” He said the last words very slowly, like they were so heavy it was a miracle he ever managed to climb out of that river. “I lie, and I deceive, but, most of all, I get people to trust me. Steal for me. Tell me things they shouldn’t. I use people, Zoe. And, sometimes, they get hurt.”

Zoe felt brave for some reason—or maybe just stupid—but she had to know. “People like Helena?” He kept quiet but shuddered at the name. “You do sleep, you know. And you talk while you do it. Was she your girlfriend?” she asked slowly. “Your wife?”

“She was nothing. No one. She was”—he drew in a ragged breath—“expendable. And now she’s dead.” He wrapped the extra blanket around Zoe’s shoulders and turned her toward the fire. “Go to sleep, Zoe. Nothing else is going to hurt you tonight.”

Zoe wanted to argue—to fight—but her eyelids were too heavy and her limbs were too weak, so she just lay in the glow of the fire, trying not to think about the man who had the power to hurt her most of all.