“What does that mean? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Riley—” Her mother had her hand on her shoulder when the door that separated the kitchen from the living room swung open. Gail Thorpe came out first, looking nothing like the toned FBI agents Riley knew from television. She was slightly stout with hair somewhere between stone-gray and brown that was pulled back into a no-nonsense bun pinned at the nape of her neck. She was wearing a skirt suit, but the jacket was slightly ill-fitting and the skirt—not pencil thin or thigh high—was boxy and knee length. Instead of stilettos, Agent Thorpe wore brown loafers with thick rubber soles. Riley was so busy scrutinizing Agent Thorpe—who came toward Riley with an extended hand and a friendly smile, that she almost didn’t notice the man coming out of the kitchen behind her.
“Nice to meet you Riley, I’m Agent Thorpe, but please call me Gail. And this”—she turned to gesture and Riley stood stone still, feeling her veins fill with cement—“is U.S. Marshal Hempstead.”
Mr. Hempstead nodded at Gail then brushed in front of her, offering Riley a hand.
But Riley didn’t move.
He looked different, somehow, standing in her living room. The man from the train station. He broke into a soft grin while Riley stared, but all she could see was his hard eyes drilling into her at the hospital. The insistent way he asked for her name in the street. How he said he was a doctor.
“Riley,” her mother said in a half whisper, “stop staring, you’re being rude.”
“That’s OK,” Gavin said, his hand dropping to his side. “I’m sure this is a lot for Riley to take in.” He didn’t break eye contact or mention that they had previously met. Riley wondered if his gaze was a silent promise or a warning.
Riley shifted her weight from foot to foot and forced herself to mumble, “Hello.”
“Why don’t you sit down, Riley?” Gail asked.
Over the last twelve hours, Riley realized she hated those words. Nothing positive ever came out of an adult telling a kid to “sit down.” She looked from her parents to Gail, and the gray static in her head started up again. She pressed her hands over her ears.
“I don’t want to know.”
Her father’s large hand circled over Riley’s wrist, making hers look like a child’s. “You have to, turnip. It’s important.”
Riley knew her eyes were glassy. She blinked furiously. “Why are they here?”
Her mother’s sharp intake of breath cut through the static in her head. “Actually, hon, Agent Thorpe—Gail—and Mr. Hempstead want to help us.”
Riley’s knees buckled and she flopped onto the couch. “Want to help us how?”
Mr. Hempstead perched on the arm of the couch and stared Riley down. His face was relaxed, not unkind, but still it shot ice water down her spine.
From the wing chair across the room, Gail cleared her throat.
“Do you know what a U.S. Marshal is?”
Riley blinked, already on edge, already annoyed at the patronizing sound of Gail’s voice.
“Of course I know what a marshal is.”
“I am a supervisory deputy U.S. Marshal. I’ve been helping you and your parents for the past fourteen years.”
“Let me get you another cup of coffee, Gail.” Riley’s mother stood up, and Gail followed right behind her.
“Oh, Nadine, I can do that.”
Riley swung her head from her mother to her father, and then up at Deputy Hempstead. She felt like a stranger in her own living room, like the sole audience member of an incredibly bizarre play.
“So you’ve always known him?” Riley asked her father. “And her?”
“I’ve only just met Deputy Hempstead and your parents.” It was Gail now, addressing Riley as she walked in through the swinging kitchen door. Riley hated Gail’s familiarity with her house, with her family. When Gail and the deputy shared respectful acknowledgment, Riley kind of wanted to vomit. But she swallowed hard instead, focusing on a scuff mark on the wall across from her.
“Gavin has handled our case since the beginning. Dad checks in with him every month.”
“Wait—he’s handled our case?” Riley knew her lips moved, but she wasn’t sure that any sound actually came out.
“Our family,” her father corrected.
Could we even be called that?
“I was in charge of getting you settled, getting your new identities, and keeping all of you”—his dark eyes scanned across the three of them—“safe.”
Riley blinked and blinked. Gavin’s smile was familiar—and it was genial and friendly—but she couldn’t help but see something sinister in the grin, something evil in his eyes.
He was a liar.
They were all liars.
And now they were forcing her to be one.
TWELVE