Chapter 36
REED
Seattle, Washington
Age Twenty-Nine
The coffee shop buzzed as Reed approached Evelyn Nash.
She blinked up at him when he neared, and he nearly took a step back.
Her round, owl-framed glasses were too large for her slender, almost gaunt face.
Her eyes were as dark as her hair, her pupils lost in her irises.
She had a flat nose that hung over a pair of thin lips and a jaw that tapered into a sharp point.
Standing this close, something about her features seemed insect-like to Reed—like he was staring at a human grasshopper.
“Not all who wander are lost,” he read aloud, nodding at the sticker plastered to the back of her computer. “Aragorn, right?”
“Are you a fan of Isildur’s Heir?” she asked.
“Sorry?”
“The rightful king. Strider of the Wilds. The one who wields the Flame of the West.”
Reed coughed, unsure how to respond. He opened his mouth and shut it, then opened it again. “I—”
She tapped the sticker. “Aragorn. Are you a fan?”
“Yes, sorry. I love The Lord of the Rings.” He’d prepared for this, knew she was into Tolkien. He’d even spent some time brushing up on all things Middle Earth over the last few months in preparation, but her direct question and clipped, monotone caught him off guard.
“I don’t see how that can be the case if you don’t recognize his many names.” She waited for his reply, her face an expressionless mask as her insectoid eyes clicked over him in a series of slow blinks.
Reed hoped she liked what she saw: a man a few years older than her wearing scuffed jeans, a blue denim jacket, and a black T-shirt showcasing her favorite band, The Strokes.
He’d grown his hair out and tucked it behind his ears, pairing it with two days’ worth of scruff.
Like her, he wore a pair of framed glasses, except his carried no prescription.
He looked ruffled but not homeless, just distressed enough to be her type.
“It’s uh, been a while since I read the books,” Reed said, placing his hand on the empty chair across from her. “Mind if I sit?”
“This is a public space, isn’t it? The chair is available.”
Nope, he thought, about to break for the door. No way. But he forced himself into the seat anyway, and Evelyn spoke the second he did.
“I met Julian once. He’s an introvert. He’s also highly intelligent. Some would classify him as a genius.”
Reed nearly flinched. The change of topic felt like machine-gun chatter, her words spitting into him in a way that made him want to duck.
But this time he knew exactly who she was talking about: Julian Casablancas, the lead singer of The Strokes.
She’d noticed his shirt—was staring at it now like he’d hoped she would.
“He’s very smart,” Reed said. “Did you know he can communicate with crows?” Reed didn’t know if it was true, but he’d read something about the man attempting to do that somewhere on the Internet.
Her eyebrows inched higher, and her lips bloomed into a smile that transformed her entire face like a flick of a switch—a dark room suddenly bright with light.
Her eyes crinkled at the corners. Her cheeks rose and flushed with color.
The expression was so welcoming, so warm, he couldn’t help but smile back.
“I did not,” Evelyn said. “How very fascinating. Are you certain it’s crows? It might be ravens. They’re technically more intelligent.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s crows. I’m Adrian by the way.” Reed stretched out his hand and she took it, pumping it vigorously.
Just one more, he told himself. One more and I’ll be done.
Evelyn Nash would be the last.
He’d spotted Evelyn while sipping a martini in the Plaza in New York City of all places.
He’d been relaxing before attending a charity gala for neglected animals or homeless kids in Africa—he couldn’t remember which, only that it was some bullshit event where women with too much money went to play at being philanthropic—when he’d noticed her on the television screen hanging over the bar.
Evelyn clung to her father, Donald Nash, as he hollered at a bunch of reporters to clear away from his car.
She had limp, dull hair and hands that were swallowed by the sleeves of a too-large sweater.
Her eyes were glued to her feet as her father tugged her through a swarm of press shouting questions about the latest Nash Logistics earnings report, Donald roaring right back, red-faced.
Reed hadn’t known her name at that point, had only known the woman appeared terrified and awkward, but the gears in his brain were already turning as he googled her.
The daughter of a shipping tycoon.
A woman with sad eyes who seemed empty and lost.
Someone who looked incomplete.
I can complete you, he’d thought. I can do that. And then I’ll disappear forever.
Reed didn’t know exactly when it had happened, but he’d grown tired of conning.
There had been so many women: Tara Knowles, the fashion boutique owner who’d financed her Main Street Kentucky store with Daddy’s money because she’d been too lazy to go to college and make something happen herself.
Jennifer Stewart, the high-end realtor who cut deals on closing costs for her rich friends but charged full price to everyone else.
All the others. The Rachel Dawsons and Lacey Graysons of the world who thought the universe revolved around them and expected every man in their orbit to do the same.
There had been so many identities, too—all the driver’s licenses, passports, birth certificates, and credit cards.
All of the names, the changes to his appearance and mannerisms. The surgeries.
He was forever running, constantly waiting for someone to recognize him and shout for him to stop!
Waiting for the police to pound on his door in the middle of the night and order for him to open up!
All the personalities. All the lies.
So many lies Reed didn’t even know who he was anymore, knew only that he was tired.
The game—which was exactly how he’d thought of it until now, as a game—had lost its appeal.
But that didn’t change the fact he still needed money, still had to survive.
So he kept going, kept telling himself the next job would be his last.
It never was. The paydays didn’t last long enough.
The people he contracted to help him disappear and then be reborn—Happy Birthday, Reed!
Welcome to the new you!—were incredibly expensive to employ.
Nothing about what he did was cheap. But it was the only thing he knew how to do.
And the only thing he did well. So he kept doing it, but he was done.
It was time to move on, time to start a new life and do something different.
He’d thought about it for so long now. Maybe he’d open a bookstore somewhere and spend the rest of his years lost between the pages.
Or maybe he’d start a coffee shop where he could listen to his customers talk about all the small, unimportant problems in life as he forgot about his own.
That sounded nice. Anything other than this.
But first, he needed one more score. A big score.
One last target he could really sink his claws into and tear free enough cash to set him up for life.
Someone exactly like Evelyn Nash.