CHAPTER 28
I’m using my finger to get the last of the crumbs from the bottom of an empty potato chip bag when the Tamiami spits us out in Homestead. Looking over, I catch Jake watching me.
“You still hungry?”
So far, I’ve had two candy bars, a container of jerky, pretzels, and a party-size bag of BBQ chips. I’ve eaten every bite of food in the car. Still famished, I nod.
“What are you in the mood for?”
I look down at myself. There’s no way I can go inside any place wearing these filthy clothes, especially not a restaurant.
“We’ll get takeout,” he adds.
“Burritos, then. And enchiladas. And maybe a couple of tacos.”
He grins and points at the phone Julian had left in the glove box along with a half-dozen SIM cards. “Why don’t you find a spot and place the order. We’ll pick it up first.”
“First?”
“We’re going to need some supplies. Toiletries, clothes… I wasn’t able to pack anything before I left. I was too afraid someone might be watching the house. And it’ll be less noticeable shopping around here than where we’re going.”
It’s just one more thing that Jake’s already thought of. And he’s thought of a lot.
From the untraceable car and phone to ditching his truck in a remote parking lot in the opposite direction of our destination.
Having Hal, the head of security from his law firm and an ex-Army Ranger, a man he’s known—and trusted—for the last decade, keep watch over the sanctuary.
Getting Julian to have a fake ID produced for me in the same name as his mom’s bank account.
Even the research he’s done and the plan he’s come up with. For the first time since I’ve been back in Florida, I don’t feel like a bad influence on him. It seems that I’m not the only one who can cause trouble. And there’s something insanely sexy about that.
Maybe that speaks to how damaged I am. Or maybe it’s more about recognizing the risks he’s taking for me. Because even though his career, his freedom, even his life are in jeopardy if we get caught, he hasn’t hesitated for even an instant.
And as he follows my directions and pulls into a parking space, I vow to do whatever it takes to keep him safe and make sure we get that chance at happiness together that he’s worked so hard for.
I watch him cross the lot, waiting until he’s disappeared inside the restaurant before pulling out the ID Julian had made—the one with my picture beside the name Cadence Glover.
It’s an amazing fake. Holding it to the light, I check the holograms, the optically variable ghost and data, even the gold look-through.
Every safeguard the state has in place to make it nearly impossible to accurately manufacture a legitimate-looking counterfeit has been achieved. It makes me wonder exactly what kind of resources the lawyers at Myers and Kleinman have access to.
And, flipping down the vanity mirror, sighing at what I see, if they can work the same kind of miracles on people. Because the image of me on this ID no longer matches my reflection.
My eyes look too large, my cheeks too gaunt.
My coloring is off. Even the shape of my face appears wrong.
I gingerly probe the raised bruise above my ear.
It feels slightly squishy, like it’s filled with fluid, probably blood.
Strangely, even though it’s incredibly painful to touch, I can’t stop pushing on it.
I’m so preoccupied that I don’t even notice Jake’s approach. My heart jumps into my throat, pushing out a gasp as the car door opens. My cheeks grow hot as Jake looks between me and the mirror. He flips it up, then hands me the bag of food. Leans forward until his mouth is almost touching mine.
“You’re gorgeous. All you need is some sleep and a shower.”
“And a toothbrush,” I say, trying to hold my breath as I speak.
“I’ll get right on that.” He gives me a kiss anyway, grinning. Gestures over his shoulder toward the Walmart across the lot. “What else do you need?”
“Don’t you want to eat while it’s hot?”
“I’d rather get this over with and us back on the road first.”
A pang of guilt flares up inside me. I’m not the only one who needs rest. Chances are I’ve had much more sleep than he has over the last few days, even if some of it counts as unconsciousness.
“I need everything, I guess,” I say.
“Clothes, soap, shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste, a comb…” he trails off.
“Makeup.”
“You don’t need makeup.”
“The bank teller might disagree. Just some concealer.”
“The palest shade they have?” he teases.
“Probably,” I admit. Then, rasping my nails against his stubble I say, “Razors.”
“You don’t like the beard?”
“I love it. But it feels like something that might flay my skin off.”
“Razors,” he confirms with a nod. “Anything else?”
“Nope. Just hurry back.”
“You can count on it.”
He gives me another kiss, then sets off across the lot. As I watch him go, I’m overwhelmed with a rush of love. But the thought of losing it makes a knot of trepidation form inside my stomach.
What if we’re doing the wrong thing?
I have no experience performing undercover work and Jake’s a lawyer. Trying to handle this ourselves could be a very big mistake. One that could get us both seriously hurt—or worse.
But do I really trust anyone else to do it? No. Taking care of this issue once and for all doesn’t mean as much to anyone else. I need to be the one to make sure that there are no loose ends left dangling to snag us later. And I will.
Opening the glove box to put the ID back, I notice the tiny plastic bag that held the extra SIM cards is empty. They must have fallen out. Grumbling, I set the bag of food on the driver’s seat and lean forward, peering inside as I fish around, but I can only find three.
I empty everything from within, piling it on my lap, but one of the chips is still missing.
It must have slipped between some of the papers.
One by one I sort through them. There’s the bill of sale for the car, purchased in the name of John Smith.
A paper with the reservation number and address of the room Julian booked us.
And a folder filled with printouts, where I finally find the pesky little chip I was looking for.
But any relief I feel is short-lived. Because there on the top page is a name that makes the little stone-size knot inside my stomach turn into a cannon ball. Don Farris. The sniper who tried to take my life.
The skin on the back of my neck tightens as I realize what I’m looking at.
This must be the information Jake’s private investigator uncovered that enabled him to find the man’s bank accounts.
It’s the same type of data that I asked Marla to try to get for me.
Only, somehow, Jake’s PI had managed to get his hands on it before the FBI.
And the man has been impressively thorough. Inside, I find everything from how my would-be assassin found the jobs he took to his marital status and home address—which is on the exact same Key that Jake and I will be staying on.
Each breath feels like a hostage negotiation with my lungs.
My jaw clenches, teeth grinding painfully together as I read through the file, doing my best to commit it to memory.
What I discover is chilling. Don Farris was a professional hitman.
By all accounts, I should be dead right now, like the dozens of others he’d been suspected of killing for his clients over the years.
I turn to the last page, hoping to find a clue as to why I’m not. It can’t just be sheer luck. But as I search for the answer, I realize I’m not going to find it. There was a fluke when this sheet printed.
Instead of revealing the finer details of the man’s experience, as the previous sentence implied I should find, the words here are illegible, the text bunched tight on the left, widening on the right.
It looks like blood spilling from a body, like it had from Skunk’s wound. Thoroughly creeped out, I shiver.
Quickly, I shove everything back inside the glove box other than the folder and the last SIM card, which I push down to the bottom of my pocket. I turn to stare at the store where Jake went, its lights shining brightly in the distance.
I don’t believe in coincidences, but I do believe in fate. I think that this is a sign. And it’s telling me that what Jake and I intend to do isn’t going to be nearly as easy as he thinks.