“Gage, man, what am I supposed to be—”

And then I got to the third picture. In it, dozens of people milled about in the background, though the picture focused on just two people. The caption to this image read: “Eric Caine, son of Senator Martin Caine, with his fiancée, Genevieve Meyer.”

The man in the photo was probably in his early thirties, his head bent toward the woman on his arm. My eyes roved over the color picture, noticing how much younger she was than him, maybe a decade or more. In a long, formal dress, she stood at his side, her hand in the crook of his arm. Her most distinguishing feature was her hair—a bright fiery red that fell in waves nearly to her waist.

But her hair wasn’t all I was looking at.

After five years, I’d gotten used to glimpses. Seeing things in people I wouldn’t normally. Catching a peek of someone somewhere who reminded me of a girl I’d lost a long time ago. And I would’ve chalked this up to a coincidence, too, because of that history and the way coming from jobs always brought her memories to the forefront of my mind. Would’ve chalked it up to a coincidence the way the shape of this woman’s lips were identical to that of someone else … how her nose sloped in the same way, how her eyes were the same shade. And while those were all pieces of a puzzle, they didn’t add up. Because the girl I’d once known had had short hair, and it’d been every color of the rainbow when I’d known her—every color but red.

I would’ve looked away, figuring it was yet another false sighting in a string of too many to count. I would’ve looked away if it wasn’t for the small beauty mark on her left cheek, the one that I knew would disappear into the dimple that only came out when she truly smiled.

The one I hadn’t seen in five years. Not since the day she’d disappeared.

Not since the day she’d died.

Chapter Three

I gripped the phone so hard I was lucky it didn’t break.

Gage’s voice was low and controlled when he finally spoke. “You still there?”

I didn’t know how long I’d sat there without saying anything, just staring, disbelieving, at the photo. At Gage’s question, I tried to speak but had to clear my throat before I could force out any words. When I finally did, what came out was nothing more than a croak, but he took it as confirmation.

“I need you to listen to me, Ry, very carefully. She’s in trouble. They’ve found her. Someone from the Minneapolis crew must’ve seen the article, and word got back to Max. Aaron confirmed a few hours ago that Max is sending people for her. We don’t know who, and Aaron couldn’t give me an exact time, but it’s going to be soon. I’d bet my balls Max won’t sit on this more than a few hours.”

And even though I couldn’t stop staring at the picture of her, at the face that resembled the girl I’d once known, I still couldn’t believe it. It didn’t make any sense.

I’d visited her goddamn grave.

Because of that, the denial came effortlessly. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Almost as if he’d expected that response, Gage answered without hesitation, without exasperation. “Yes, you do.”

“No. I don’t. It says right here her name is Genevieve Meyer, and I don’t know anyone with that na—”

“Ry. You know who it is. You know.”

I shook my head, though he couldn’t see it. I couldn’t reconcile what he was telling me, what I was seeing in that photograph, with the past five years. I didn’t know which was real, which was a lie.

In the silence, Gage spoke again, “I’m sorry it had to happen this way. I wish I could’ve told you differently, but I need you to focus. It’s important. Someone could already be on the way to her. She’s in trouble.” He sighed and cursed below his breath. Then he said the words I never thought I’d hear again: “Evie needs your help.”

EVIE

It was late when I finally got home, the house empty and hollow, Eric having left for London several days prior. I both loved and loathed when I had the house to myself. It was the only time I ever truly got to let my guard down. It was the only time I was able to truly be myself.

Except I hardly remembered who that was anymore.

Hell, I didn’t know if I even wanted to know who that was.

Because the girl I’d left behind so many years ago was a complete fuckup with more problems than a mental institution and more baggage than an airport. And even though I didn’t want to, even though I fought the flashbacks with everything I had, my mind still betrayed me sometimes. It still transported me back to my childhood home—a small two-bedroom house in a shadier part of Chicago. It’d been all we could afford, though, especially after my father had been laid off shortly after I’d started high school. And even then, it had been fine.

Until it wasn’t.

Until suddenly the walls of that house felt more like a prison than a home. Until those very walls held secrets—secrets buried under years of silence and pain and avoidance. Secrets I still kept to this day.

Secrets I’d keep until my last breath.

My heart sped at the remembrance of that time. When I’d been fifteen, fumbling my way through my teenage years and totally unaware of the hell my life was about to become.

Forcing myself out of my memories, I hung my keys by the back door and walked farther into the house, shedding my coat and hanging it over a chair in the dining room. Whenever I was assaulted with flashbacks, I always had a hard time sleeping. I didn’t know if it was self-preservation, keeping myself from the nightmares that plagued my sleep, or if it was simply fear of the possibility that I might be transported there against my will.

After taking a long bath and indulging in a couple glasses of wine, I settled in on the couch in the family room to watch some comfort movies—old-school cult classics, the ones that always made me laugh no matter what—knowing I wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while, anyway.

When I was partway through my third movie, my cell phone rang. I glanced at the time, seeing it was after one in the morning. Eric’s face lit up the screen, and I answered. “What if you’d woken me up?”

I could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke. “That’d be some supersonic hearing you had, then, since you always put your phone on Silent when you go to sleep.”

The thought that he knew something as trivial as that, but not something as monumental as the fact that my parents were still alive and well in Chicago, not buried in a cemetery in Miami, filled me with the heavy cloud of guilt that was always pressed down on my shoulders.

“I’m just watching some movies. How’s London?”

“Busy. I’m running all over place, and this office is a goddamn mess. There’s a lot to get in order before it’s suitable for clients. Too much to get in order.” He cleared his throat, and I knew enough about him to know he needed to tell me something he thought would disappoint me.

“What is it?”

Blowing out a breath, he said, “Because of that, I might need to extend my trip.”

I figured that was coming, because all the business trips he’d taken since we’d gotten engaged had run longer than anticipated. “That’s okay.”

“I’m talking about another week, maybe two.”

“That’s okay,” I repeated. “Take the time you need. I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe they’ll keep you busy at work,” he said.

I thought about the office job I went to every day, the job I had absolutely no interest in, and knew that even if they did, it wouldn’t engage my mind. Despite my degree in journalism, I’d never put it to use, instead getting a job at an office, filing papers and inputting data into a computer. And I dutifully went to it Monday through Friday, put on my mask, and got the job done that I needed to.

Always pretending.

Before I could answer, muffled sound crept over the line from Eric’s end. There was a mumbled voice, a murmur of confirmation from Eric, then he said, “Sorry, Gen, I gotta run. I’m not sure what my hours here are going to be like, so I’ll try to call when I can.”