She sipped at her coffee—wasn’t sure if you could even call it coffee, she’d ordered some mocha-frothy nonsense that fit with the persona she was wearing, but it did taste pretty good. Not that that mattered, she’d simply needed the distraction for anyone watching the person they would see as a twenty-something blonde wearing dark blue slacks and a cowl neck beneath a hoping-for-spring pink wool coat. Appearances were everything.
The warm drink did its job, removing the chill of the late March morning. Although it definitely didn’t ease Morgan’s mind. She pocketed her phone, not sure whether to be worried or relieved at finding no signs of surveillance.
Dread. Never knowing when the blow could come or which direction it would come from. However you labeled it, Clint had perfected its creation. It’d been her father’s unique signature in his former occupation of sadistic serial killer. She’d spent a large part of her life as the chief object of his emotional manipulation, but until now she hadn’t fully appreciated how much freedom she’d enjoyed while he’d been behind bars.
And now Clinton Caine was free. Ready to pick up where he’d left off. Her mouth twisted as if the coffee had gone bitter.
“Something wrong, miss?” the barista asked, rubbing the March Madness promotional button she wore on her apron. The entire city was gearing up for the Pitt game tonight, especially as it was being held downtown at the Arena. Morgan could tell the woman took pride in her work, was genuinely worried. What luxury—having nothing more than coffee to worry about. It was difficult to even imagine.
Morgan rearranged her face into a bland smile. “No, nothing. I’m just running late.”
“I like your coat. It’s nice to see spring colors.” She nodded to the grey March clouds that made it impossible to tell if it was morning or night—until the sun blazed through them, blinding drivers and pedestrians alike for a few wistful moments before vanishing faster than Punxsutawney Phil seeing his shadow. Typical schizophrenic Pittsburgh spring. Barely above freezing this morning, a high near sixty predicted, and they were calling for sleet and snow again tonight and tomorrow. March Madness indeed.
“Thanks.” Morgan snuggled deeper into the soft wool of the ankle-length coat. She was certain the color had a pretty-girl name like rose cream or rose blush, and she’d only stolen it because it fit with the blond persona. Ordinarily, as herself, she’d never wear a coat that would attract attention like this one, but when you wanted people not noticing or remembering your face, sometimes a diversion like a pretty pink coat was necessary. If anyone ever asked, Morgan had practically crafted the barista’s testimony for her: blond, early twenties, in a pretty pink coat, acted like a secretary or maybe a salesperson for one of the upscale Regent Square boutiques.
She finished her coffee, left a generous tip to further cement her persona, and left, the sun following her movements, breaking free of the clouds in a golden blaze.
Morgan reached for her sunglasses—her favorite fashion accessory. Who wouldn’t like socially acceptable camouflage that allowed you to spy on others without revealing your own gaze? Not to mention sharp-edged lenses that could double as mirrors or cutting instruments, along with flexible lengths of wire perfect for picking locks or poking out an eye, depending on the needs of the moment. The ultimate survival tool, she’d wear her sunglasses day and night if it were practical. In fact, the few times she’d played a persona who was blind, she had. It had been glorious, hiding in plain sight, the world unfolding before her, unwitting and vulnerable.
Clint had loved using her in the role of blind cripple, setting her to surveil a target. What do you see? he’d urge her. Look past the surface. Who do you see? What are they really? Can you see them? Can you really see?
She flinched against his seductive whisper but couldn’t resist the urge to circle the block one last time, making sure there was no sign of Clinton Caine or any of the other two maximum security prisoners who had escaped with him. You shouldn’t be here, his voice echoed through her mind. You don’t belong—unless you want me to find your friends? Pay them a visit?
The voice in her head might be his, but the doubts were hers and hers alone. She shouldn’t be here—she should be halfway around the world by now. Far away from anyone she cared for, leading Clint even farther away from them. And yet…she’d tried to leave, twice she’d made it all the way to the state line, she’d told herself she could keep an eye on her friends from a distance, safer that way for everyone…and twice she’d turned back, returned to Pittsburgh.
Her first instinct—after running—was to hunt Clint alone. Find him, kill him, return to her life, and forget she ever had a father. But with the FBI, US Marshals, State Police, a handful of county sheriff’s departments along with numerous local police departments searching for him and the other escapees and coming up empty, she realized she’d have to make him come to her. And somehow protect her friends while she did it.