The Blonde Identity: A Novel

Zoe didn’t know why she wasn’t sleepy. Maybe it was the long nap she’d had in the car or the chill that still clung to the stuffy air of the cabin, but she strongly suspected it had more to do with the man who refused to lie still even though she had only just finished sealing the wound in his side with superglue (yes . . . superglue).

The jerkface.

She could hear him down below, locking doors and drawing shades, stoking the fire, letting all the heat rise to the loft overhead.

The place should have come with bearskin rugs and lots of mounted antlers, but there were only a few pictures on the walls—black-and-white photos of trees and snow and the still, summertime waters of a lake. Zoe walked down the stairs, examining every one, silent as a thief, no idea what she was going to steal but certain that something precious lived hidden in those walls, swearing she wouldn’t stop until she’d found it.

“Are you hungry?” he called from down below.

There was really just one room. A few cabinets and appliances that could loosely be called a kitchen, a rickety table and chairs, and the big stone fireplace and old, dusty sofa. But somehow when she glanced over the railing, he seemed small for the first time since she’d known him.

“This place is always stocked with canned goods and first aid.” Well, at least that explained the superglue.

“And vodka,” she helped out.

“And vodka.” He took a deep swig from the bottle she hadn’t even noticed he was holding. “I can heat up some soup or—”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“I’m not hungry.” She was walking down the stairs when the light of her candle landed just right on one of the photographs and she realized that it wasn’t just a picture of a lake. There was a child in it, too—a little boy—doing a cannonball off a long dock in the distance.

She took another step and brought the light closer to another picture: pine trees drooping under the weight of heavy snow—and, almost obscured by the branches—a tiny set of footprints leading to a snowman.

But it was the next photo that made her stop—made her stare. Because she recognized the fireplace and soft rug, but in the dark, she hadn’t noticed the little boy who was lying on his stomach, setting up dominoes, one after the other. There was a mischievous smirk on the child’s face, and even though the photo was black and white, somehow she knew that his eyes were a clear, bright blue.

“No!” She leaned on the railing. “Nooooooo!”

“What?” Sawyer shouted, panic in his voice.

“No way. No way! No freaking way!”

“What?” This time he sounded leery.

“Is that . . .” She trailed off as she pointed to the photo and he slowly brought the vodka to his lips again. His throat worked as he gulped it down. One. Two. Two and a half. Then he set the bottle on the counter and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

His shirt was still off and, for a moment, she wondered if maybe she was developing a fever because why else would the sight make her so hot and swoony? Maybe she’d been hurt in the fall? Maybe . . .

“I can neither confirm nor deny . . .”

Zoe looked back at the little boy in the photo. “It’s you! Gasp!”

Sawyer let out a weary, put-upon sigh. “You know, most people don’t actually say ‘gasp’; they just—”

“You were a child!” She took a step closer to him. And he took a step closer to her. “You were cute!” she said, like that was the most vicious accusation in the world. Then she cocked her hip. “What happened?”

She’d meant it to tease, to joke. Because her favorite thing in the world was teasing this grumpy, growly man who never let her drive and was really good at building fires and pulling glass out of toes and drinking vodka while shirtless.

It wasn’t supposed to make him grimace and growl in the not-fun way. But something shifted in that moment. She knew it the moment he said, “That’s classified,” and walked away.

*  *  *

She found him on the porch, staring out over the snow that glistened like a sea of crystals. “We should be safe here.” He grabbed an armload of firewood, then ushered her back inside and locked the door.

“Sawyer . . .”

“This place isn’t in my name.” He walked to the fireplace and dropped the wood. “The bills are paid out of a numbered bank account, and I haven’t been here personally in twenty years, so—”

“Sawyer.”

“—no one can tie this place to me. Not the agencies and definitely not Kozlov. You take the loft. I’m used to the couch. And I don’t sleep—”

“You might sleep if you tried it in a bed for once!”

“No, Zoe. I wouldn’t. So take the fucking loft.” She’d seen him frustrated and tired and hungry and annoyed and excited and terrified. But she’d never seen him mad before—not at her.

Then he started blowing out candles, leaving nothing but little whisps of smoke swirling like ribbons in the moonlight.

“Why do I get the feeling you’d rather let me stab you in the other side than tell me what this place is?”

“It’s nothing. Really. Just someplace I used to come when I was a kid. That’s all.”

He started to push past her, but she reached for him. She wasn’t sure why. It’s not like she could stop him—take him—beat him in a fight. But as soon as her fingers grazed his skin he froze.

“Get some rest, lady.” His lips twitched at the name he used to call her, but it sounded different now, and for the life of her, Zoe couldn’t pinpoint how or why.

He opened his mouth as if to say one more thing, but the words didn’t come—just a quick breath. And then the last candle went out.