Identity

He couldn’t shake them, couldn’t quite shake them. No matter how often he told himself they’d never look for him, never find him in some dump of a room in the rain-soaked back of beyond, he felt them inching closer.

Twice he’d hacked into the state cops’ system—once in Idaho, and again in Oregon—and found to his fury and his fear they’d updated his description.

The sketches didn’t hit home, but hit close enough to force him to change his look, again.

He’d restyled his hair, added a beard, both shaggy and nondescript brown. He wore glasses with cheap black frames, and hated the face he saw in the mirror.

With the help of makeup, the lines around his eyes had deepened, and his skin carried the pallor of a shut-in. He’d already gained weight from all the fast food and lack of hotel fitness centers.

He changed locations and vehicles every other day. Rusty pickup trucks and rooms that smelled of must.

And the bitch lived her life on the other side of the country, laughing at him as she sat in that big-ass house.

He heard her laughing even when he left the light on at night.

He imagined killing her countless times, in countless ways. But those sweet, sweet dreams shattered to shards when he heard her laughing, when he felt the breath hot on the back of his neck.

It couldn’t go on. It wouldn’t go on.

He needed a place. Luxury might have to wait, but he needed a decent place where he could huddle in for a couple of weeks, maybe three. A month.

A place with a decent shower, where the rain didn’t pound headaches into his skull. A place where he could think, plan, prepare.

He’d head south, south into Nevada. The desert heat would bake the mold out of his brain and warm his blood again.

He’d leave now, tonight, under the cover of dark and rain.

Excitement rose up as he thought of it. South, toward the sun, while they looked for him in the soggy Northwest. But west first, toward the coast. Dump the banger he’d stolen only the day before, get himself a truck. He could leave the fucking feds some bread crumbs so it looked like he headed north toward Washington State.

But he’d double back south. South toward the sun.

Where he could think, where he could plan.

Now he smiled out at the rain as he brought Morgan’s face into his head.

Sitting in that big-ass house, thinking she’d beaten him. Thinking she’d won.

“Enjoy the rest of your summer, bitch, because I’m coming.”

Now he was the one who laughed.



* * *



Miles reached for her when he woke Sunday morning. When he found the space beside him empty, he opened his eyes, studied what had become her side of the bed, at least on weekends.

And realized he didn’t like that empty space. He’d gotten used to having her fill it, gotten used to the way she slept. On her left side, one hand under the pillow as if she held herself in place.

Annoyed, and more annoyed to find himself annoyed, he sat up and noted the dog had deserted him, too.

He got up, pulled on a pair of gym shorts with the vague idea of working out after coffee—better yet, after sex. Downstairs, as he walked toward the kitchen, he caught the mutter of the great room TV.

One of those home improvement shows, he identified. The woman loved HGTV.

And there she was, in baggy shorts, a baggier T-shirt, standing at the counter she’d littered with bottles, whole and juiced-out lemons and oranges. His grandmother’s big cut glass pitcher glowed a deep, almost purple red with whatever she’d mixed in it.

Now, with one eye on a bunch of people ripping out ugly, shit-brown kitchen cabinets, she sliced an orange.

“What’re you doing?”

Still slicing, she glanced over. “Morning. Why, I’m waxing my surfboard, of course.”

“Ha.”

He went straight to the coffee maker.

“I’m making sangria. The flavors need time to blend. I was going to make it when I got home last night, but you had other ideas, so I’m getting it together now so it’ll have blending time.”

He looked over his shoulder as he reached for a mug. “I had other ideas this morning.”

That got a smile as she dumped the orange slices in the pitcher. And picked up a lemon. “That’ll have to wait. We have a dinner party to prep for.”

Coffee. Coffee. Coffee, he thought as the scent of it brewing made him yearn. “It’s not a dinner party.”

She’d said the same, she remembered. But now she embraced her ladies’ definition.

“We’re having people over for dinner, that we’re making. Hence, dinner party. And I know I’m more wound up about it than you are, but I don’t get to do this kind of thing often. Mostly at all. The last time…”

She slid the lemon slices in, started on the lime. “The last time was when Nina and I made dinner for Sam and the man I thought was Luke Hudson. Today’s going to wipe that one right off the books.”

It mattered, he thought. What he considered just a casual summer evening with family mattered to her. For so many reasons.

He stepped away from coffee, stepped to her, wrapped his arms around her.

“Is that the biggest pitcher you could find?”

He felt her laugh, felt her relax.

“You’re thinking that while Nell may have one glass out of solidarity, the guys are going to stick with beer, because your balls may shrivel up if you drink something you consider too fussy and girlie.”

“That wasn’t my exact thought.”

“Sangria’s neither fussy nor girlie, but a perfect summer adult beverage. And in a few hours, you’ll learn my sangria’s exceptional.”

He stroked a hand along her spine before going back for coffee. “Not fussy says the woman who’s decimated a decent-size orchard and has multiple bottles on the counter.”

“One of the many secrets of my sangria is fresh juice.”

When the doorbell rang, Morgan put down the knife.

“I’ll get it,” Miles told her.

“I’m fully dressed; you’re fully not.”

He held up a hand to stop her before picking up the remote and changing the channel to security.

“It’s my mother. Why the hell is she knocking?”

He switched the channel back and started out of the kitchen as Morgan looked down at herself. And said, “Shit.”

When he opened the door, Drea lifted her eyebrows. “Sleeping in?”

“Why didn’t you just come in?”

“In case you were sleeping in or otherwise occupied.” She handed him a basket of peaches. “The Millers are up from Georgia.”

“How many bushels this time?”

“Two. So I’m divvying up. I know you’re seeing Liam and Nell later. You can share.”

“Maybe. Jesus, come in, come back. We’re in the kitchen.”

“I don’t want to get in your way.”

“In the kitchen,” he repeated, and started back. “Morgan’s making enough sangria for Barcelona. We have peaches,” he said as he set the basket on the counter. “You can’t possibly want to stuff them in there, too.”

“I went red wine and citrus, but if I’d known.” Morgan plucked one out, lifted it to her face, and drew in the scent. “They’re gorgeous. Thanks, Drea.”

“Thank the Millers. Second cousins on my side. They grow peaches in Georgia. And your sangria’s what’s gorgeous.”

“I’d offer you some, but it hasn’t had time to blend, and wouldn’t be right. How about an iced cappuccino?”