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It hadnothing to do with the fact it was closer to Gia.
The lone hotel in the town center was basic, but clean. The off-white walls, framed photos of local landscapes, and brown patterned carpet were typical of a two-star chain anywhere in America. Beneath the window, the A/C unit hummed noisily, belching out warm, stale air.
Caleb closed the drapes and stripped down to his briefs.
Forcing himself to scroll through the messages on his phone, he read each one from his Dìleas colleagues—personal notes asking how he was holding up, condolences about his mother, a virtual hug from Nathalie accompanied by a photo of a watercolor lily she’d painted for him.
He considered texting Ryder about the night’s events, but decided against it.
For now.
No sense alarming his boss over something that wasn’t job-related—especially since, as Zach had pointed out, Gia wasn’t his problem to deal with. He’d take a few extra days off when he got back and recover.
Instead, he tapped out a brief reply to everyone: he was fine, the funeral was tomorrow. Then he settled cross-legged on the bed.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Despite his attempt to clear his mind, Gia lingered. Her eyes held a wealth of secrets. Where had she come from? Why hide here, on the largest Indian reservation in the US?
The need to protect her called to something deep inside him. His cousin felt it, too.
He’d seek her out tomorrow, before he left town. Give her his business card. Just to make sure she understood how to stay safe.
But he couldn’t stay.
Chapter Five
Run.
The word pounded through Gia’s head like a war drum, driving out logic, drowning reason in a flood of panic.
She waited until Zach and Caleb disappeared down the road, then bolted for the bedroom, throat closing as adrenaline surged.
How had Vincente found her?
She was an East Coast girl who liked the finer things a city could offer. How naïve to think changing her name and hiding across the country on the Navajo Nation would be enough.
His family had eyes everywhere.
Gia yanked the brown Louis Vuitton suitcase Vincente had insisted on buying her from the closet and hoisted it onto the bed, careful not to catch a wheel on the indigo, black, and red Navajo pattern bedcover.
The luxury brand, with its garish monogram and bloated price tag, looked absurd in her modest home. Once, the designer bag announced her status. Now, like the jewelry she’d brought with her, its only worth lay in what it could fetch at a pawnshop for cash if the need arose.
The one piece of jewelry she’d left behind was the five-carat princess-cut diamond engagement ring Vincente had slipped onto her finger. Taking it off had felt like removing handcuffs. Ones she intended never to be shackled by again.
Where could she go? The RAV4, paid for in cash when she arrived in Arizona, was too distinctive—metallic green, hard to miss. If Vincente’s men had noticed her plate and traced it, they’d know her real name.
Gianna Lucia Barone. Born in Brooklyn. Daughter of a man serving life for at least three murders.
Vincente would savor the irony. He’d known her as Abigail Winters—Upper East Side heiress, orphaned at eighteen.
A true story, mostly.
Just not hers.
The real Abigail Winters would have been Gia’s age if she hadn’t died as an infant.
So she’d borrowed the identity, and Abigail Winters had been born. Again. This time as a fully formed adult with a backstory. College. Med school. A residency at a top hospital followed by a career catering to Miami’s rich and powerful.