Page 9 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold (The Blonde Identity #2)

Ten Years Ago

The Farm

Alex

“Tell me about Zoe.”

Alex took a deep breath and reminded herself that, at the Farm, therapy wasn’t optional. At the Farm, therapy was good. At

the Farm, people were taught how to plant bugs and make bombs, so it was important to ensure that trainees weren’t absolutely

insane. Of course, if the last six weeks had taught Alex anything, it was that no one would willingly do this if they weren’t

a little bit crazy. She didn’t know what it meant that it was the happiest she’d ever been in her life.

“Are you and Zoe close?” Dr. Abrams asked over the top of her cat-eye glasses, vintage and a little too funky for someone

employed by the CIA. Her skin was very pale, and her hair was very dark, and she looked like she might be about to offer Alex

an apple. There wasn’t a doubt in Alex’s mind that it was poisoned.

“Zoe doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

The woman gave a subtle shrug. “Tell me about her anyway.”

So Alex started with the obvious. “She’s my sister.”

Dr. Abrams was a pro, so she stayed silent, waiting for Alex to get uncomfortable and start jabbering to fill the void because

most people hate silence and they hate awkward. But Alex wasn’t most people. Alex would’ve sat there until she starved to

death before she said another word.

“Did you like being an identical twin?” the woman asked eventually, and Alex gave herself a mental high five for not being the one who cracked first.

“I don’t know.” Alex looked down at her hands. She still had paint under her nails from camouflage class and bruises on her

wrists from the zip ties. “That’s like asking me if I like being right-handed. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

“Did you ever think about what it would be like if Zoe died?”

Once upon a time, Alex had thought of almost nothing else, but that didn’t matter anymore, because—“She’s okay now. She’s

fine. Her heart’s as good as new.” But it might not stay that way.

“Did you talk to her? About your decision to come here?”

“Of course not.” Alex didn’t talk to Zoe because Alex didn’t talk to anyone . Not about this—that would have violated more rules and laws than she could count. But she didn’t tell her sister about anything

else, either, Alex realized. She and Zoe were identical in ways that went beyond DNA. The same nature. The same nurture. And

yet they were totally different because one of them had been born healthy and whole and the other one had paid the price.

“How does that make you feel, knowing that Zoe will never know the truth about you?”

Alex didn’t say what she was thinking: that no one ever had.

***

When Alex left the office fifteen minutes later, she should’ve felt a million pounds lighter. Her checkup was done. Her head

was shrunk, and she wouldn’t have to do it again for six whole days. She was finally free to focus on other stuff, real stuff— spy stuff .

“My door is always open, Alex,” Dr. Abrams called from the doorway and Alex forced a smile. “If you ever want to talk about

Zoe...”

It was the kind of offer that felt like a threat, and Alex darted down the hall and around the corner, finally coming to rest

with her back against one of the glass-fronted display cases that lined the long, wide hall.

Usually, Alex loved those exhibits. There were tubes of lipstick that were actually cameras and cameras that were actually guns.

Loafers with knives in the soles and a ring where the ruby was actually cyanide.

It was the only part of spy school that was actually like the movies, and Alex felt at home among those things that were so much more than they appeared.

They were like her, she told herself, but at the moment, she just felt achy and out of place, like something was wrong.

She’d forgotten a test, a paper—her pants. She was stuck in that dream where you’re back in high school and standing in a

crowded cafeteria, totally naked. Except Alex was wide-awake and all alone. Still, something was missing, and Alex had to

find it. Right then. Before it was too late. She had to call home. Then she remembered she no longer had one.

So she leaned against the glass and closed her eyes.

She tried to focus on her breathing.

She told herself that no one would be in the gym at this hour; she could sneak in and hit as many things as she wanted for

as long as she wanted and—

“The kid is impressive.”

Two men were walking through the lobby. Alex couldn’t see them, but she could hear their footsteps, easily make out their

words.

“He should be, given his pedigree.” The second man gave a low, dry laugh. Then he stopped. Alex could practically hear him

turn. “Did you know he has a photographic memory?”

“Like the old man?” The first guy sounded torn between being surprised and impressed.

“Exactly.”

The second man gave a low, slow whistle, and Alex knew exactly who they were talking about. She could tell from the hushed

and reverent tones.

It might have been easy to call Michael Kingsley a kiss ass, but he wasn’t. If anything, it was like the instructors wanted

to impress him .

“Michael, my boy!” the deputy director of the CIA had said after a guest lecture in their second week. “How’s the old man?”

“Mr. Kingsley.” Their demolition and explosives lecturer had slapped him on the back two weeks ago. “Give your father my regards.”

Just that afternoon, their shooting instructor had taken one look at King’s targets and proclaimed, “You could have given

your grandfather a run for his money.”

Needless to say, Alex hated him.

She had always been the top of her class because she was the person who tried the hardest. And now he was top of the class,

even though, as far as Alex could tell, he didn’t try at all.

In the lobby, the footsteps grew louder—closer—as the men headed toward the main front doors.

“You’ll probably hear from his father eventually,” one of the men said.

“He called me last week.”

“No shit.” The footsteps stopped. “Let me guess, he wanted to know when you’ll be covering Nikolai?” The man’s voice was flat,

but there was something in the inflection that made the hair on Alex’s arms stand up. “What’d you tell him?”

“That we’ll get to it just as soon as we finish our unit on the Easter bunny.” The second guy laughed like they were so funny.

But, to Alex, they just sounded mean. “Of course, we’ll have to save some time for Santa Claus.” Their chuckles turned to

cackles as they pushed through the double doors, and Alex stood there for a long time, until the laughter disappeared on the

wind.

She didn’t know what she’d just heard, but she felt guilty. For eavesdropping. For wondering. That conversation wasn’t even

classified, but somehow, it felt like the most top secret thing she’d ever heard.

“Ask me.”

Alex turned at the sound of the voice, hating herself because she hadn’t heard him—hadn’t felt him. Maybe she really didn’t

belong at spy school, she wondered, but she’d rather die than admit as much, so she looked him up and down instead, as if

she were already bored.

“I’m sorry. Were you speaking to me?”

“You know I was. So ask me.”

“Do you really have a photographic memory?”

It surprised him, she could tell. That wasn’t the part that’d had him worried. “The technical term is eidetic.”

“Do you?”

“It’s not photographic, per se. There’s no such thing, technically, and—”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” He didn’t move. He barely breathed. He just stood there, staring at her as the night got later and the world got darker

and the whole universe seemed to narrow down to the three feet between them. “ Ask me. ”

“About...” But that was when she saw it. Maybe she followed his gaze. Or maybe it was the work of her subconscious and

six weeks of training on how to notice reflections and catch details. It was like an echo—a hall of mirrors. A trick of the

light.

Because Michael Kingsley was there—looking at her. And he was also there —hanging on the wall, a photo in black and white.

Slowly, Alex stepped closer to the photograph—of him.

Only not him. Not exactly. The suit was gray and the tie was thin and the glasses were dark-rimmed, but more than anything, there

was a look in the man’s eyes that said he’d done things he was proud of (and a few more that he wasn’t).

The plaque beneath it read “The Michael Kingsley School of Cold War Studies.”

She glanced from King to the photograph. “Are you a vampire?”

Alex wasn’t prepared for the quirk of his lip, like he was amused—with her. Like maybe he actually knew how to smile. Which...

oh... there it went, turning into a scowl. It was a look that said the CIA had made a clerical error—a drastic mistake.

Like at any moment a black ops team was going to breach the perimeter and come take her away, and he was only standing there

because he wanted to be close enough to see her sweat.

“So that’s no to vampire, then?” Alex asked, then reconsidered. “Time traveler? Shapeshifter?”

“Are you finished?”

“Ooh!” She thought of one more. “Evil clone!”

He gave her a look like Go ahead and get them all out of your system , but Alex just shrugged as if to say she was finished.

“Grandson.” He turned to face the image in the frame. “I’m his grandson.”

No wonder he was able to carry himself like he belonged. Like he was bored. Like he’d already learned all of this in the cradle

and why were they making him go back to kindergarten when he should have been working on his PhD?

“So that’s why everyone treats you like a baby duke.” Alex thought it made perfect sense. It was the first thing since she’d

met him that did.

“Notice how I’m not asking you what that means.”

There was a kind of chill that radiated off him, like nothing in his vicinity was allowed to be cooler than he was. Alex felt

it as she gestured toward the plaque.

“I thought no one was ever supposed to know our names?” It felt, to Alex, like an excellent point, but King just looked at

the photograph.

“He was the Berlin station chief in sixty-two.” His voice was soft and reverent. “Everyone knows his name.” Then he seemed

to remember who he thought he was speaking to—like she of all people wouldn’t get the reference. “That was the Golden Age

of—”

“Tradecraft,” she cut him off. “I know.”

“They were going to make a movie about him.”

“Really?” Alex couldn’t hide her excitement. “Why didn’t they?”

“I’d tell you, but then...” No man had ever looked more smug than he did in that moment. “Sterling?”

“What?”

“There’ll be another bus tomorrow morning. Get on it.”

But she just turned and walked away.