Chapter 35
BAILEY
“Not bad,” Zane says, appraising me from across the table. “You clean up well, Ms. Carter.”
I feel my lips curl higher in response.
“Thank you.”
Coming from another man, I might take the statement as flirtatious.
Coming from Zane, it’s nothing more than a fact.
My transformation has taken six months and several procedures to achieve.
My eyelids are wider and brighter as a result, the skin beneath my eyes fresh and firm, the bags gone.
Thanks to the laser depigmentation, my irises are no longer a deep hazel brown, but rather a stunning light green.
My nose looks better too, the tip contoured and the bump in the bridge smoothed in a way that brings more harmony to my profile.
My entire face has a certain vitality I didn’t realize was missing until now.
I’ve never been a fan of plastic surgery—hadn’t given it much thought before all of this, really—but now I understand why people pursue it.
The results are stunning. When I gaze in the mirror, I barely recognize the woman looking back at me—especially after dyeing my hair.
My mop of dirty blonde has blossomed into a lush mane of red.
Unlike my eyes, the color change isn’t permanent.
I’ll have to keep after it. But I can manage that.
Even if Reed catches on, it won’t be a big deal. Lots of women dye their hair.
Zane takes a swig of his beer. “Are you ready for this?”
“I think so,” I say.
He frowns. “That’s not good enough.”
“Fine,” I say, smacking my vodka tonic against the table. “Put me in, coach. I’ve never been more ready.”
It’s true. My change isn’t just a physical one.
Over the last six months I’ve felt myself coming back to life little by little.
With each passing day, I’ve sensed my resolve going stronger.
I’ll admit I was on shaky ground at first—especially after paying Zane the initial five-hundred grand we’d agreed on.
I’d constantly questioned how I’d come up with the rest of the money.
But I’ve never questioned my decision to go after Reed.
In fact, my conviction to crucify him has only grown stronger.
Lately, I’ve even managed to log eight hours of sleep for a few nights in a row instead of waking in a panic from my usual sweat-drenched nightmare.
So yes, I’m ready. In a way, it feels like I have a new lease on life.
Zane tilts his bottle and clinks the neck against my glass. “Much better.”
We’re heading to Durango, Colorado tomorrow, Reed’s adopted hometown, and Zane suggested we grab a quick drink and review the last few details of the plan.
That, and we both need a break from all the preparation.
I’ve been living as Avery Carter for nearly half a year now.
I’ve memorized every detail of her life.
Born in Sioux City, Iowa to a single mother, Avery had a decent upbringing.
She and her mom bounced around the Midwest until settling in Des Moines, where Avery played soccer for several years at North Polk High School.
She wasn’t exactly a star, but good enough to think about a scholarship or two before a knee injury sidelined her.
A few years at the University of Kansas followed, until a fatal car accident took that away too—Avery the one behind the wheel.
She spent a year behind bars. Then two years of probation, Avery off to a local community college to finish her finance degree after that.
Some hard years from there: Her mother’s cancer.
A funeral. A long stretch spent moving around the country, chasing work, before finally settling in Durango where—
Oh, hello, there.
—she’ll meet Reed Aldridge.
A transient childhood. A single parent. A tragic car accident and a fatality.
A history of isolation.
A fake past tailored with enough similarities to Reed’s to evoke empathy. A past that will remind him of his own—all of it available with a few clicks of a mouse thanks to Zane and his contacts. Newspaper articles, database records, paper trails; when it comes to Avery Carter, it’s all there.
As for my actual past, Zane obliterated it.
You can’t find a mention of Bailey Nichols anywhere.
I don’t know who he hired to do it, but they did an incredibly thorough job: all my high school and college records, every business article I’ve been a part of, my time at PricewaterhouseCoopers and all my client presentations are gone.
There are no stray images of me still floating around the Internet.
Even the articles about the wreck and the deaths of my family have been wiped clean.
It’s like the crash never happened at all.
I take hold of my drink, the glass cool against my palm. “So, everything’s good to go, then?”
Zane sips his beer and deadpans me. “What do you think?”
“I think Paula was right.”
“Yeah? About what.”
“She said you were good.”
He gives a nonchalant shrug. “You get what you pay for.”
I have. Zane is good. Very good. After taking the job, he gave me an entire library’s worth of books on adaptability and persuasion.
He spent days educating me on compartmentalization and how to maintain my composure in tense situations.
We role-played various scenarios for hours.
Any time I said or did something out of character, he stopped and explained exactly what I did wrong and why.
There can be no slips. No mistakes. Not with Reed.
I have to be different from his prior targets: a confident woman, strong enough I can’t be manipulated, but not so strong I scare him off.
A fun, flirty, fresh, cool-ass woman who challenges him in the best of ways, all while validating his grandiose sense of self-importance.
I’ll need to connect my past with his and remind him of the girl he once loved.
But I’ll have to be different from her, too.
I’ll need to make him believe that, unlike Taylor White, I won’t abandon him—would never abandon him. Not when I’m meant for him.
“Listen,” Zane says, “I know you think you’re ready, but you never really are.
You have to be perfect. There’s no room for error when you go undercover like this.
You say the wrong name, you mention something from your past—your real past—and it’s over.
You forget your backstory for a second, it’s over.
You act in a way that isn’t congruent with who Avery Carter is, and it’s over.
I know you know this, but what you’re about to do is dangerous, Bailey. It’s dangerous as hell.”
I tilt my drink toward him. “You did it, didn’t you? And you’re fine.”
“I worked in NARC. I never had to sleep with my targets. And I still found ways to fuck up at times. It’s incredibly difficult to act against your instincts in high-pressure situations like this.
You have to ignore every emotion screaming at you to get the fuck out of there.
But that’s exactly what you have to do. Ignore them.
Once you commit, you need to go all the way. There can’t be any half measures.”
“That’s fair. But I can handle it.”
He assesses me for a long moment, his eyes turning clinical again. I fight the urge to shrink back. His gaze is a fearsome thing. One minute everything’s fine, the next you feel like you’re sitting across from him in an interrogation room, guilty of murder.
He runs a hand over his chin, then gives me the ghost of a grin. “You know what? I actually think you can. You do everything exactly like we practiced, and you’ll have your shot.”
My cheeks warm as I smile. I can’t help it. Zane’s compliments are as rare as shooting stars—blink, and they’re gone.
“Thank you for doing this.”
“Trust me,” he says with a quick laugh. “It’s not out of the goodness of my heart. Now come on, let’s get out of here. We both need to get some sleep.”
Zane calls the waitress over and pays the tab. We’re nearly halfway to the door when something catches his attention.
“What is it?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he stares at the bar, which is crowded with people—some seated, some standing.
Nothing seems out of the ordinary. Nothing but Zane, who suddenly heads for a man with thinning hair and glasses wearing in a salmon-pink polo.
He looks up from his stool as we draw near, his eyes slowly widening in recognition when they land on Zane.
“Hello, Doctor,” Zane says, coldly.
“Oh—hello, Mr …”
“Jenson,” Zane finishes.
“Right,” the man mutters. “Sorry. Mr. Jenson. How’s your daughter?”
“Still very sick.”
“I’m … sorry to hear that.”
“Are you? You referred her to a shrink,” Zane replies. “You told us she had ADHD.” A vein throbs near his temple, and the man shifts back on his stool.
“Listen, Mr. Jenson,” he says, after a quick swallow. “Why don’t you call the office and schedule an appointment, and we can talk about this further there?”
A dangerous light flashes through Zane’s eyes—something I haven’t seen before in him—but his voice remains as even as ever. “And wait another three months to see you like last time? I don’t think so.”
I lay my hand on his back and feel the muscles tense beneath my palm. “Hey, let’s get out of here.”
“She has MLD,” Zane says, ignoring me.
The man pales at this, but he doesn’t say anything. I can feel the tension rising off Zane like a heatwave.
“Zane,” I say more firmly.
But he still doesn’t move, just stares at the man and says, “You’re a specialist. You should have known better. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
With that, he moves past me and heads for the door.