Page 109

Wallet. Keys. I pull out a tissue and blow my nose.

Everything else in the bag is worthless, but it’s clear the bag snatcher didn’t get that far before being assaulted by the… what?

Bodyguards?

Assassins?

There’s a chance they might be random passers-by, but it’s strange behaviour if they were.

Usually, coming to the rescue of a lady in distress would play out like the other man who gave chase. They’d circle back to check I was okay or at least receive my thanks and acknowledgement for their efforts.

But these guys? Nothing.

In my worst moments since fleeing, I’ve imagined Lance Tana tracking me, keeping tabs on my every movement, waiting for the right moment to eradicate me.

Except those men didn’t lay a finger onme, they assaulted my attacker. Strike assassins from the list. My cheeks glow red as I think of Kincaid appointing his minions to keep watch.

He must know the truth by now, and I’m hopeful this means he forgives me. At nights, when I miss him most, I wish I’d talked to him first, even with the risks. He deserved that.

Of course, it might also be nothing more than coincidence. A couple of random do-gooders so pure of heart they’re don’t need any recognition.

It could be.

But as I sit on the bench, hearing the roars of triumph from the winning team, my mind spins with memories of Kincaid. I pull out my pawn shop burner phone, staring at the keypad, trying to will his number to appear in my memory banks the same way I’ve tried a dozen times already.

It doesn’t work any better now than it has before.

I just don’t remember.

I hang my head between my knees, letting the waves of loss flow over me. When I’m too cold to stay outside for another second, I head to the nearby library, grateful for its warmth.

And when I leave for another night on Alyssa’s sofa, and my back prickles like someone’s watching, the dark streets don’t scare me.

I feel safe. I feel cared for.

Best of all, I have the inkling of a new plan.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-EIGHT

KINCAID

Ezra runsup the stairs rather than taking the lift, exploding onto the main floor with an enormous grin on his face. “Guess who’s going to the six-week try-outs later this month?”

I look up from my barely touched dinner. “Jared?”

“That alkie. The only place he’s destined for is rehab.” Ezra tosses his bag, and it skids across the floor, spilling his dirty gear onto the clean tiles. “Not likely. Try again.”

Tyson pads downstairs, presumably drawn by the noise, and takes the chair beside me. “Zeke?”

“Zeke’s not even at high school.”

“Ferdinand?”

“Ferdi-what now?” Tyson snorts at my suggestion. “That’s his name?”

“Nickname. He’s built like a bull.” I trawl through my memory banks while Ezra dances from foot to foot, humming with excitement. “Real name’s Glen.”

“Fuck, that’s even worse.” He turns back to Ezra. “Is it Ferdinand?”