I scan the lobby one more time, then glance out the glass doors at the front of the building. No cabs are waiting—not a surprise this late at night. I make a split-second decision. The doorman at a building like this will be able to get someone here faster than I can on my own.
“Call a cab and tell them to get here as soon as they can. I’ll be waiting outside.”
“You’re more than welcome to wait in here.”
I clench my teeth. “Please call. I’ll be outside.”
He nods calmly in the face of my desperation, then picks up the phone. I don’t wait to hear what he says—I just move, press my hands against the smooth metal strip in the center of the door to push it open, and walk out into the summer heat.
My first instinct is to run, but now that I’m outside, cars trundling slowly by on the streets, I don’t want to draw attention to myself. Instead, I walk calmly away from the doors and press my back up against the warm stone wall of the building.
It’s only then that I realize my hands are shaking, and my grip on the disorganized collection of clothes and purse in my hands is so tight my knuckles are white. It takes a conscious effort to relax, but as soon as I do, my teeth start chattering, even though the air is thick with humid heat rising from the pavement.
I want to call Carolyn, anyone, but my phone is buried somewhere in my clothes, and I know digging for it now will cause the whole thing to fall all over the sidewalk. Not worth the risk, especially if Christian comes out after me.
The thought sends a new spike of adrenaline streaking through my veins.
Am I making myself a sitting duck, standing out here alone like this?
Is it any worse than walking through the streets of New York in the middle of the night, looking bedraggled and paranoid?
If Christian—Elijah?—would lie about who he is, what else would he lie about?
I realize how little I really know about what happened ten years ago.
A fresh horror dawns. What if he didn’t steal his brother’s identity when his twin died of an overdose? What if he murdered him?
The bile rises in my throat, and I swallow hard, willing myself not to throw up.
There are too many questions, not enough answers, and a raw, searing pain. I was taken for a fool.
Again.
Somehow, this is far worse than what Derek did to me. How much worse, I’m still not sure.
Have I been secretly dating a murderer?
What the fuck do I do now?
Not only dating and having the best sex of my life with him, I remind myself with a churning gut. Working for him. Working with him. Making him seem so trustworthy, so responsible…
It’s the early hours of Friday morning right now. I have about five hours before I need to be back in the HRM offices. I’m drawing a complete blank on whether I have any meetings scheduled with Christian today—I can’t think of him by any other name, I just can’t right now. How can I sit across from him in a meeting? A cold sweat trickles down the back of my neck even though it’s hotter than fuck out here.
I’ve just made up my mind to call in sick when a yellow cab turns the corner. I peer through the windshield, another sickening anxiety gripping me—what if it’s the same driver from the airport? I don’t think I’ll be able to take it.
But it’s not him.
It’s a young man with dark hair and he appears reserved and quiet, and relief sweeps over me as I slide across the cracked leather seat and pull the door closed behind me.
Clearing my throat, I rattle off my address.
As he pulls the car away from the curb, I crane my neck to look behind us, half expecting to see Christian run out onto the sidewalk.
For a moment, I’m disappointed.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper to myself, sinking back into the seat as the cab carries me forward into the first part of my escape from the man I thought I loved.
Chapter 38
Christian
The thing about your worst nightmares?
They always come true.
Chapter 39
Quinn
It’s easy to sound sick on the phone when I call the HRM offices and leave a message that I won’t be in. I genuinely feel like I’ve been run over by a Mack truck. My stomach hasn’t unknotted itself since I left Christian’s apartment, and my mind is scattered in pieces, not to mention what my heart feels like.
Carolyn knocks on my bedroom door Friday morning on her way out to the boutique. “Hey,” she calls out softly. “Can I come in?”
I grumble something unintelligible from beneath my cocoon of covers. The door swings open, and seconds later the bed dips as Carolyn’s weight presses down on the mattress.
“Are you the only one?”
I poke my head out from underneath the comforter. What the hell is she talking about?
“The only one what?”
My roommate gestures at my state of being. “This looks like a pretty nasty bug. Is it taking over the office, or are you the only one who got it? I think the subways are just giant germ incubators.”
I roll away from her with a groan.
She was asleep when I came back last night, so I didn’t have to tell her what happened.
I could lie about it, but that would make me a massive hypocrite.
My stomach turns over. I can’t tell her the whole truth.