The Blonde Identity: A Novel

Well, at least I’m not claustrophobic, Zoe thought as she stood beside the woman in the burgundy blazer, riding the tiny elevator deep underground. She had no idea how long it took. She didn’t think about how far they went. All she knew was that when the doors finally opened, they were in a room that was all stainless steel and glass and . . . wait. Were those lasers?

The woman swiped an ID badge through a reader and the red lines flickered.

Yup. Definitely lasers.

Suddenly, her leather pants seemed even tighter and Zoe couldn’t get a deep breath. She wanted Sawyer’s hand in hers, his voice in her ear. She wanted to go back to being Mrs. Michaelson or at least the person she’d been at the cabin—the woman who slept in old T-shirts and Sawyer’s arms. Yeah, Zoe thought wistfully, she’d liked being her a lot. And maybe she’d get to be her again. Just as soon as she stopped being Alex.

She followed the woman to a large alcove behind a velvet curtain. It looked like a dressing room at the world’s stuffiest department store.

“I’ll only be a moment,” the woman said then pulled the curtain behind her, leaving Zoe alone.

“I’m in,” she whispered, but all she heard back was static. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but . . . I miss you. Darn it. Now I hope you can’t hear me. That was—”

“Here we go!” the woman said a little too cheerfully as she slid aside the velvet curtain and placed a box on a narrow table. She pulled the curtain. She walked away. But Zoe didn’t move. She didn’t even breathe. She just stared down at the box like it held the secrets of the universe and she wasn’t even sure if she wanted to know them anymore. Somehow, she knew that her life would be divided into two sections: before that moment and after. And she couldn’t help but worry about what was waiting on the other side.

She might have stood there forever—staring—but the clock on the wall was ticking way too loudly, echoing off the stone and steel. So Zoe took a deep breath and threw open the lid and looked down at a handful of passports, some cash, a handgun.

And there—right on top—a flash drive.

A spotlight didn’t shine and angels didn’t sing, but they could have; because it was there. That was it. She’d been right and she wanted to high-five the world—and maybe she would—just as soon as she changed clothes. She grabbed the drive and slipped it into her cleavage because, really, where else was she supposed to put it? She filled her jacket pockets with cash and was already reaching for the curtain when it slid aside again.

She half expected the woman to ask if she could get Zoe something in another size, but her arms were already full.

“Oh. I’m sorry.” The woman looked surprised. “Did you not wish to see your second box?”

Your second box.

Zoe heard the words. She saw the box. It was right there—in the woman’s arms. But she was sure she must have misunderstood. The same nerves that had been doing a dance a moment before were suddenly frozen, midkick. Like someone had hit pause on the world.

“My second box?”

The woman put the box on the table and held up the piece of paper—the one Zoe had nervously filled out while she rambled. Sure enough, the last three digits were different from the number on the little black card. So Zoe stood there for a long time, looking between her two boxes. And she couldn’t help but whisper, “Muscle memory.”

She hadn’t remembered that box existed, but her hand had known to write the number.

“Ma’am?” The woman was starting to sound confused—concerned. Leery.

“Oh, I forgot about that! Yes. I need something out of this one, too. I was so worried about getting out of your hair before closing time that I . . . I won’t be long. I promise. Say, do you know someplace good for dinner near here?” She tried to sound casual—she tried to look casual. She was pretty sure she was failing but the woman forced a smile.

“Why don’t I write down some suggestions while I give you some privacy, yes?”

“Yes. That would be . . .” She looked down at the boxes. “Oh yes.”

Zoe wasn’t sure why she held her breath—why her hands trembled. The first box had held exactly what she’d been looking for, but somehow it was this second box that scared her. So she was careful as she released the latch and pulled off the lid and looked down at—herself. Or who she had been, once upon a time.

There were photos of two little girls who needed braces, of twins who seemed nothing alike. One strong and fierce and one small and pale.

Zoe wanted to look at every single picture, take in every single detail and mine them for memories, but the clock was ticking louder. Time was running out. She had to get back to Sawyer, give him the drive, end it. She had to end it once and for all, but then her gaze caught on something: an envelope marked FOR ZOE, and Zoe didn’t think twice, she grabbed it and shoved it in her pocket.

She’d read it later, she told herself. When she had time and tea and maybe a nice cookie. Yeah, I could go for a cookie, Zoe thought as she headed for the door.

*  *  *

It was later, darker, and so much colder when Zoe exited the bank, but she didn’t even feel the chill. She had a thumb drive in her boobs and an envelope in her pants, so she was obviously doing an excellent job of undercovering.

Sawyer was going to be so proud. The CIA was going to want to recruit her. She’d be parachuting into North Korea before she knew it. Clearly it was time for her to join the family business, she thought as she waited for a lull in the traffic and crossed the busy street.

She was wrapped in a warm coat of satisfaction, giddy on the rush of being someone else and getting away with it as she jumped the icy curb, expecting Sawyer to be there, waiting. But she had to stop and scan the little park, searching the darkness until she saw him on the other side of the square.

She didn’t even try to hold back her smile. She was the least covert person in the world as she raised her hand and waved.

“Oh my gosh! You’re never going to believe . . .” But she trailed off as she realized . . .

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t racing to pick her up and swing her around and, really, it was a very pick someone up and swing them around kind of moment! Instead, he stood too still, and he looked too serious.

When the first little red dot appeared on his black sweater, Zoe thought it was a mistake, a piece of thread or lint. But then there was another. And another. And Sawyer shouted, “Run!”