The Blonde Identity: A Novel

Sawyer had a hold of her arm and he wasn’t letting go. Not yet. Maybe not ever. They’d been walking for five minutes, but Alex still had that strange look in her eye—like she was going to turn around and bolt. Like there was anywhere she could go that he wouldn’t find her. Like he didn’t know all her usual haunts. Like they hadn’t been his haunts first.

But she hadn’t gone to any of their usual places this time, had she? From the looks of her, she must have been roaming the streets for hours. Which wasn’t the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. Predictability was death, after all. And nothing about Alex had been predictable tonight. At all.

He took another look at her. Blonde wig. Plaid dress. A too-thin jacket and boots with a flimsy heel. Could she even run in that getup?

“Cool cover, Alex. Did you really think the sexy librarian look was going to keep the goon squad from recognizing you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She looked like someone who couldn’t decide whether or not to be offended.

“It means what the fuck are you wearing?”

She gasped. “Don’t use that language with me!”

He stopped. He stared. “Who the fuck are you to comment on my f—”

“Language!”

“—reaking language?”

“I-I-I-” She stammered. Her lip even quivered just a little. If it was an act, it was a good one. “I don’t remember.”

“What the hell . . .”—he started, but she glared— “heck was that back there?”

“Muscle memory.”

“Oh yeah?” he scoffed but she just looked annoyed.

“You know, when your body remembers actions because of years of intense training and repetition,” she said calmly—slowly—like he was the one who was off his game. So he flicked her on the end of her nose. “Ow!”

“You remember this?” he said, and then he flicked again. Not hard. But not teasing.

“Stop that.” She smacked him on the arm—so weak it wouldn’t kill a fly.

It would have been hilarious if it wasn’t also terrifying. “Come on, muscles. Remember.”

He flicked her ear. She slapped his hand. And that’s when he realized that Alex would have had his nuts in a vise by now, but this woman . . . girl . . . person . . . She narrowed her eyes and bit her lip and looked up at him like she’d been drawn by Walt Disney. Like she was innocent and pure and good. Between the blonde hair and the big eyes it was like he was looking at a stranger.

“Will you take off the wig at least? I can’t take you seriously in that . . .”

He reached up and tugged, but the hair didn’t pull free. Instead, the woman shouted, “Ow!”

And then he knew. He just knew.

When he spoke again, his words were a whisper that echoed in the night.

“You’re not Alex.”