Identity

Within the hour, things started to pick up, as predicted. Opal sent word she needed Bailey back on the floor in fifteen.

“I learned so much already. Thanks, Morgan.”

“Anytime. I mean it.”

Liam slid, solo, onto a stool.

“Another round?”

“No, just a Coke. I’m heading home soon.”

“And your date?”

“Not a date, just a drink. By the way, Bailey, I like your hair.”

“Oh.” Flustered, she brushed at it. “Thanks. I’ve got to get back to my station.”

“Take your break first. You’ve still got ten coming.”

“She’s not working the bar?” Liam asked when Bailey hurried off.

“Training. Bailey’s a summer hire, in grad school. You didn’t go to high school with her?”

“We went to Lincoln—different districts. One of my friends dated Jessica back then for a while, so I knew her a little. We ran into each other in town earlier today.” He lifted his Coke, rolled his eyes. “Some people just don’t change. I like cats, but not the two-legged ones.”

Now he winced. “That was probably really sexist.”

“In this case, you get a pass. How’d she like her drink?”

“She said it was fine, the way you say ‘fine’ when you’re tolerating something substandard. Before, when Bailey brought the drinks out, she needled her. You know?” With his thumb and forefinger together, he twisted them sharply. “And Bailey just smiled and said, like, it was so interesting to come home for the summer and run into someone from high school who hadn’t changed a bit. All smiles, but it wasn’t a compliment.”

“Good for her. Awkward for you.”

“Kind of fascinating really.”

“I’d say you could chalk this up to a fortunate escape.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

She kept an easy conversation with him, and another with the group mid-bar, filled orders, watched the floor.

“You know,” Liam said to her when she worked her way down to him again, “I did the backbar thing one school break.”

“Did you?”

“Law of the Jameson Land. You put time in, in every capacity, so you know how everything runs. Or should. I’m pretty sure I sucked at it.”

“I doubt that.”

“I couldn’t do what you do. I’m sitting here watching you do it, and can’t figure out how you do it.”

She leaned toward him. “I can’t ski.”

“I could fix that next season.”

“You will never have the chance. Weird boots stuck to a couple of skinny boards, a hill of snow? Hard pass.”

“Now you’ve made it a challenge.” He stood, laid some cash on the bar. “I love a challenge. See you later.”

“Have a good night.”

Right before closing, Opal marched up to the bar. “Tomorrow, half hour before shift.”

“All right. Let’s meet in the wine cellar. It’s private.”

“Fine.”

Really angry, Morgan noted. But at least—hopefully—she’d soon find out why.



* * *



She arranged her day to make the morning meeting with enough time to swing into Crafty Arts for an early look at the photos for a show her ladies had booked for the weekend. Before she left, she brought in the mail and sorted it into piles.

Though she assumed she’d find a solicitation from the one addressed to her from a credit card company, she opened it and prepared to toss it into the recycling bin.

Then stood, stared as her skin ran cold, then hot.

Three thousand, two-hundred eighty-six dollars and twenty-eight cents. On a card she didn’t possess for purchases she hadn’t made, in two stores in New Orleans, where she’d never been.

Everything inside her began to shake. Her throat slammed shut; her lungs shut down. For a terrible moment, her vision went gray. She didn’t feel herself sliding, but ended up on the kitchen floor, clutching the bill, while her ears rang.

She clawed her way up, stumbled over to the sink, leaning over it until the nausea passed enough for her to splash cold water on her face.

Still trembling, she managed to get to a counter stool and sit. Then just lowered her head to the counter until she could breathe again, could think again.

Pulling out her phone, she scrolled through her contacts, called Special Agent Beck.

“He’s—he’s in New Orleans. Or he was.”

“Morgan.”

“I—he—got another credit card in my name. Morgan Nash Albright. He used my middle name with it this time. I got the bill in the mail. Over—over three thousand dollars.”

“Morgan, I need you to stay calm.”

“I can’t.”

“Stay calm. I want you to text me the bill. Take a photo with your phone and text it to me. We’re going to send someone to pick up the hard copy from you, so don’t destroy it. But text me a copy. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Are you taking the precautions we discussed?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Morgan, I know this is upsetting.”

“Upsetting.” She had to press a hand to her mouth to muffle a quick, hysterical laugh.

“But I want you to hear me. This is another mistake. He’s telegraphed where he is, or more likely was. He’s given us a way to track him.”

“Do you think he’s coming here?”

“He knew you’d get this bill, and he’d know when you’d get it, within a day or two of when. It wouldn’t make sense for him to come there now. He wants you to be afraid, upset, confused. He needs to believe he’s in the front of your mind.”

She closed her eyes. “The way I am in his. That’s what you’re not saying.”

“If you are, it’s causing him to make these mistakes, take these unnecessary risks. We can come to you if you need us to.”

“No, no. Find him.”

“We’re working on it. I promise you. Send me the text.”

“All right. I’ll send it now. I—I have to go to work soon. If someone’s coming to get this bill, they need to come to my work.”

“We’ll arrange that. If we have any new information, we’ll be in touch. That’s another promise.”

She sent the text, then made herself walk to her grandmother’s office for a manilla envelope. She sealed the bill inside, tucked it in her bag.

Instead of going into the shop, she drove aimlessly until she felt as calm as she could manage.

As a result, she was a few minutes late for her meeting with Opal.

“My time’s as valuable as yours.”

“I apologize.” She offered no excuses as they stood facing each other in the cool air of the wine cellar.

Opal’s eyes narrowed as she studied Morgan’s face. “Are you sick or something?”

“I’m fine. You have specific complaints. This is the time to communicate them.”

“Oh, I’ll communicate them. If your grandmother and Lydia Jameson didn’t go back, you wouldn’t have this job.”

“You’re probably right.”

“No probably about it. The Jamesons tend to promote from within, but not this time. You’re not the only one on the resort who can mix drinks. And you’re slow at it because you’re so busy flirting with every man who walks in, coming on to them, especially the Jameson men. It’s disgraceful, and it reflects on all of us.”

“‘Flirting’? ‘Coming on to’? For fuck’s sake.”

“Don’t you swear at me.”