The Blonde Identity: A Novel

“Coming?” Sawyer called from the porch.

She couldn’t believe it when the key was under the mat. Weren’t safe houses supposed to come with retinal scanners and voice-activated attack dogs and keypads that shoot acid if you type in the wrong code? Evidently not, and Zoe couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit disappointed as she followed Sawyer inside.

She reached for the switch by the door, but nothing happened when she flipped it.

“No power,” he said. “We’re off the grid. I’ll see if I can get the generator going in the morning. In the meantime, there should be some candles around here somewhere.”

It didn’t take long for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. One whole wall was windows, after all, and moonlight filtered through, reflecting off the snow outside—too bright for the middle of the night. The whole place was covered in dust and smelled like it hadn’t known fresh air in ages, and if it hadn’t been for the tall stone fireplace and old furniture, she might have wondered if they’d just unlocked a tomb.

“We should have gas for hot water and wood for fires, and . . . Shit,” Sawyer mumbled and she heard something hit the floor just as he struck a match.

Light flickered, the tiny orange glow washing over the dusty floor as Zoe bent down to retrieve the candle that was rolling toward her.

“Looking for . . .” she started but trailed off as she came eye to eye with the dark stain on Sawyer’s shirt.

Her first thought was that he’d spilled something—that she should give him a hard time for being clumsy. But the stain was wet. And the stain was very, very red. And his face was very, very white. And in the flickering glow of the matchlight she saw it in his eyes—she knew.

So she looked up at him and said, “I’m going to kill you.”

Him

“You’re a real jerk, you know that, right?”

Sawyer did know, but that wasn’t the time to recount all his lies and betrayals and crimes both large and small. He was reclining on the couch, surrounded by at least a dozen candles and one very large bottle of vodka. He just hoped it was large enough.

“Don’t drink all that. I need it.” She grabbed the bottle back.

“Need it for— Son of a bitch!” he shouted as she poured liquid fire into the gash in his side.

“This is from the mountain, isn’t it? You said it was just a scratch.”

“It is a scratch,” he said and she gave him another splash. “It’s—fucking—”

“Language!” she scolded as she set the bottle aside and brought a candle closer to the scratch that . . . okay . . . was a little longer and a little deeper than he might have initially led her to believe.

“You were going to fight ten of Kozlov’s guys—”

“I only saw four. Five. Shit—” Another splash. “Well, now you’re just wasting it to be mean.” He grabbed the bottle back and took a swig. Something told him he was going to need it.

“Walk away, Zoe,” she said in a too-deep voice. “I don’t need your help, Zoe. You’re just a girl, Zoe.”

“Hey, I never said—”

“And then you gave me a Certifiable Movie Kiss and went to take on twenty guys way bigger and stronger and tougher—”

“Hey!” Now the thing that really hurt was his pride.

“You could have died.” He so wanted her to be teasing, but the tears in her eyes were real and so was the tremble in her voice. “You could have bled to death. You could have—”

He sat upright even though it hurt like hell, even though he’d just stopped bleeding, even though she wasn’t really his to comfort, his to console and touch and soothe.

She wasn’t really his.

So why did it feel like he had every right in the world to cup her face and feel her warm cheek in his cold palm? Why did it feel like there was a safe deep inside of him and the tumblers had finally clicked into place—the deep satisfaction of knowing that he’d cracked it.

“Hey,” he whispered, even though she wasn’t really his. And she never, ever would be.

She turned her head—lips brushing against his cupped hand—and it was all he could do to choke out, “I didn’t die. I’m okay.”

He watched Zoe bite back screams and tears and at least a million words that neither of them had the strength to say. Then he let her push him back onto the sofa. He felt the brush of her hair as it glided over his bare chest, the touch of her fingers as she traced every scratch and bruise—like she wanted to make sure he was safe—he was whole.

Sawyer had been in danger pretty much every moment of every day for a decade but that felt like the very first time anyone would actually care if he got hurt.

“Zoe . . .” His voice was rough in a way that had nothing to do with blood loss or vodka. “Baby, I . . .”

“Sawyer . . .” Her fingers traced over his skin, burning like the flames.

And then she pulled a piece of wood out of his side and Sawyer saw stars as he screamed and she leaned closer.

“Don’t ever do that again. I have no intention of becoming your fake widow.”

She threw the bloody stick onto the fire then got up and stormed away—left Sawyer lying there, wondering which part of the last three minutes was more painful.