Chapter Five
Sara
AKA
Helen
I was kissing a mark, and I couldn’t stop.
Shit.
I broke away, gasping, my eyes darting to the bookstore’s familiar chaos—shelves stuffed with paperbacks, the hum of the espresso machine, a kid in the corner pretending to read a book that was clearly upside down.
Enimton—Ashen, as I’d named him—stared at me, his eyes soft but piercing, like he could see through my flowery facade to the real me.
He’s kissed Helen, not Sara.
But why did it feel so damn good? I grabbed my glasses and put them back on.
“Ashen,” I said, my voice too breathy for an agent trained to stay cool under pressure. “That was . . . unexpected.”
He grinned, a dimple flashing in his cheek, and I hated how it made my stomach flip.
“Unexpected’s not always bad, Helen.” His voice was low, warm, like he was savoring my fake name.
He sat back in his chair, the mini typewriter he’d given me gleaming between us, its engraved message—“To Helen from Ashen, her first fan”—mocking my deception.
I smoothed the skirt of my flowy dress. Get it together, Sara.
You’re here to dig into Simmons, the Gravestones, Max’s death.
Not to lose yourself in some bookstore romance.
I touched the typewriter, its cool plastic steadying me, but his gift stirred guilt.
He’s not what I expected. How can someone tied to something so dark be this . . . kind?
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes. “So, Helen, I’ve been thinking about Judy. Your character. You said she wants a normal life, but there’s more to it, right? What does she really want?”
The question hit like a well-aimed dart, piercing my carefully constructed cover.
Judy was my creation, a shield, but there was also some of me in her.
Part of me did yearn for normal—the version of me I might’ve been, had I experienced a normal childhood, or if Max had lived.
I swallowed, my fingers tracing the typewriter’s keys.
Who would I have been if Max hadn’t saved me from becoming my mother?
I forced a laugh, light and Helen-like. “Judy’s complicated. She’s the daughter of this insanely powerful guy, right? Rich, controlling, the kind who casts a shadow you can’t escape. She wants freedom, not just a normal life. She wants to be someone who doesn’t owe her soul to his empire.”
His eyes lit up, like I’d handed him a puzzle piece. “Freedom’s a big word. What does that look like for her? Is she running from him, or trying to prove something?”
I hesitated, picturing Max—his arm around me in that treasured photo, his voice steady: Decide who you are, Sara, and don’t waste a moment on anyone who doesn’t see you.
He’d pulled me and Mom out of her con-artist spiral, given us stability, but he’d died chasing a truth I was now risking everything to find.
Max would’ve seen through this act. He’d hate this—me playing Enimton so masterfully. He wanted better for me.
But I’m so close to finding out what really happened to him.
“It’s not about proving anything, it’s about keeping a promise she made to herself. It’s about the truth and finishing something that was important to someone she loved. Someone taught her what being a good person looks like and she’s doing her best to live up to that ideal.”
Enimton tilted his head, his gaze softening. “Sounds like you know what that feels like.”
My breath caught. He was too close to the truth, seeing too much.
If he knew I was Sara, an FBI agent using him to dig into his family’s secrets, that spark in his eyes would die.
I shouldn’t care, but it’s tearing me apart.
I forced another smile, pushing my glasses up my nose.
“Maybe a little. Writing’s personal, right? ”
He nodded, but his eyes didn’t leave mine, and the air hummed with something electric.
He reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine, and my skin tingled.
He’s not just a mark. He’s broken, like me.
Collateral damage? I didn’t want that to be his story.
I pulled my hand back, pretending to adjust the typewriter, but the warmth of his touch lingered.
“Let’s talk about your villain,” he said, shifting gears. “How would he fit into Judy’s story?”
He has the most kissable lips.
My FBI instincts snapped to attention.
Focus.
I am—on his lips.
Dammit.
You’re right. I’m risking too much to screw up over a kiss.
I shook all over like a dog shaking water off, then poised my fingers over the keyboard again.
“I think he should have known her father’s secrets.
Definitely blackmailed him, forced him to do something awful.
Judy’s caught in the fallout, trying to uncover what her father did without destroying herself. ”
Enimton’s jaw tightened, just for a second, like I’d brushed a nerve. “That’s good. Real. I bet Judy wishes she could go back to being unaware of any of it.”
That caught my attention. “Was she ever really unaware? Or do you think she always suspected something?”
He hesitated, then said, “There would have been signs. Maybe some he didn’t know how to interpret at the time.” He jerked upright. “Not him, her.”
“Do you think uncovering something horrible would drive her to do something evil herself? Maybe try to kill off anyone who knows what her father did?”
The air pulsed with tension again. “She might hurt someone, but not on purpose. She’d want to help, but her efforts would only make things worse.”
Oh.
That made me feel both better and worse about being with Enimton.
Nothing so far pointed to him deliberately trying to hurt Dylan.
Still, I didn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle.
Journals? Could Simmons have written down what he did?
If so, who would have that? What had Enimton been trying to do when he ran Dylan off the road, if it was in fact him who’d done it?
Enimton could be making up details, but that’s not what my gut told me.
He was too honest.
Kind.
And eyeball deep in something that might destroy him along with his whole family.
If the Gravestones were part of whatever separated those twins . . . part of whatever Max was investigating . . . I will uncover the truth . . . and I will bring them to justice.
He laughed, the sound easing the tension, and his dimple flashed again. “It’s just an idea. I’m sure you’ll have better.” He leaned closer, his scent—clean, like cedar and soap—making my head spin. “Helen, you’re the writer. I bet Judy’s story’s going to be incredible.”
When he calls me Helen, I want to be her—just a writer who met a man in a coffee shop and . . .
Stop.
If I could have pulled myself off the case and put myself on desk duty, I would have.
I’m too smart to be this stupid.
“Thanks,” I said, my voice catching. “I just . . . I want it to mean something, you know? Like it’s not just a story, but something real.”
He laced his fingers with mine, warm and steady, and my resolve wavered. “It will be,” he said. “Because it’s yours.”
The tenderness of his touch was a heady temptation.
I slid my hand free and smoothed the skirt of my dress again. He believes in me, but he doesn’t know me.
And this might not even be the real him.
Sometimes people hide their ugly side until they have a chance to unleash it safely . . . somewhere they won’t be caught.
I cleared my throat, forcing a shift. “I’m hungry.”
He laughed. “Okay. Um. Would you like to get something to eat somewhere?”
Yes.
No.
Yes.
“I’d love to.”