wasn’t sure if he was genuinely impressed or just kissing her ass.
“If it weren’t for you helping Deputy PA Slater, the corruption would have gone unchecked, and none of those people would have been arrested.”
Her fingers started to go numb at the tips. The last thing she wanted to do was remind all of those people of her existence and, worse, make it seem like she was bragging about her part in bringing them down. Hell, at one time she’d been as knee-deep in the shit as the rest of them. She had nothing to brag about.
“I know you took a bit of a beating in the press before,” he said at her continued silence, “but you don’t have to worry about how you’ll be portrayed.”
What, like they could somehow turn the mistress of a notorious criminal—who, among other things, had twisted her testimony to help send an innocent man to death row and stood numbly by while half a dozen women were butchered—into a heroine for justice? “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
She hung up and immediately unplugged the phone in case Greg Fitzhugh decided to call back, then realized she’d forgotten to ask him where he’d gotten the number.
You should have changed your name.
Not for the first time, Talia questioned her decision not to change her identity. Jack assured her that as long as they held up their cover stories, he could create a cover for them that was all but bulletproof.
Everything in her had rebelled at the idea. David Maxwell had nearly taken everything from them. She wasn’t going to let him take their identities. Most importantly, it wasn’t fair to force Rosie to live this lie with her.
And deep in her heart, Talia didn’t feel like she deserved to disappear into anonymity. Her own badchoices had gotten her into trouble, and part of her penance was living with that truth. For better or worse.
This, she supposed, was the worse part.
Nothing to do but move past it. What was done was done, and unless she wanted to turn her and Rosie’s lives upside down all over again, she had to accept reality: If a person was motivated to find Talia Vega, there wasn’t much to keep them from tracking her down.
He’d failed.
He hurried into the house, ignoring his mother’s demands to know where he’d been as he raced to his room. He slammed the door behind him and threw the bolt lock, the roaring in his head drowning out the sound of Mother pounding on the door.
He couldn’t think over the twisting sickness in his stomach. He was a loser, an imposter, too weak to do what needed to be done.
Too weak to kill.
He’d hoped number three would be his first. He’d done everything right; everything went exactly according to plan.
Up until the very end, when he messed it up.
Like he always did.
He stripped off his clothes and jumped into the shower, scrubbing away the stink of abject failure. He dressed quickly, tried to quiet his mind. He needed to get a grip on himself—there was still so much to do tonight.
He’d left the experiment running at the campus lab, and he needed to get back in time to analyze the samplesbefore they were ruined. But he couldn’t go yet, not with his brain a scattered roar as he faced the reality of this latest failure.
He wasn’t worried about getting caught. He was too careful for that. But it ate at him like acid that once the drugs wore off and she recovered from her wounds, the bitch would be walking around this earth, a living reminder of his weakness.
He gulped down a glass of cold water and flipped on his computer. He checked his e-mail, and the knot in his stomach twisted tighter when he saw he’d received a Google alert about a new article mentioning Nate Brewster.
He didn’t want to read it, didn’t want another reminder of how unworthy he was a successor. But he couldn’t stop himself from clicking on the link that directed him to the article.
It was a long-form article for a Seattle-based magazine, focusing more on Margaret
“If it weren’t for you helping Deputy PA Slater, the corruption would have gone unchecked, and none of those people would have been arrested.”
Her fingers started to go numb at the tips. The last thing she wanted to do was remind all of those people of her existence and, worse, make it seem like she was bragging about her part in bringing them down. Hell, at one time she’d been as knee-deep in the shit as the rest of them. She had nothing to brag about.
“I know you took a bit of a beating in the press before,” he said at her continued silence, “but you don’t have to worry about how you’ll be portrayed.”
What, like they could somehow turn the mistress of a notorious criminal—who, among other things, had twisted her testimony to help send an innocent man to death row and stood numbly by while half a dozen women were butchered—into a heroine for justice? “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
She hung up and immediately unplugged the phone in case Greg Fitzhugh decided to call back, then realized she’d forgotten to ask him where he’d gotten the number.
You should have changed your name.
Not for the first time, Talia questioned her decision not to change her identity. Jack assured her that as long as they held up their cover stories, he could create a cover for them that was all but bulletproof.
Everything in her had rebelled at the idea. David Maxwell had nearly taken everything from them. She wasn’t going to let him take their identities. Most importantly, it wasn’t fair to force Rosie to live this lie with her.
And deep in her heart, Talia didn’t feel like she deserved to disappear into anonymity. Her own badchoices had gotten her into trouble, and part of her penance was living with that truth. For better or worse.
This, she supposed, was the worse part.
Nothing to do but move past it. What was done was done, and unless she wanted to turn her and Rosie’s lives upside down all over again, she had to accept reality: If a person was motivated to find Talia Vega, there wasn’t much to keep them from tracking her down.
He’d failed.
He hurried into the house, ignoring his mother’s demands to know where he’d been as he raced to his room. He slammed the door behind him and threw the bolt lock, the roaring in his head drowning out the sound of Mother pounding on the door.
He couldn’t think over the twisting sickness in his stomach. He was a loser, an imposter, too weak to do what needed to be done.
Too weak to kill.
He’d hoped number three would be his first. He’d done everything right; everything went exactly according to plan.
Up until the very end, when he messed it up.
Like he always did.
He stripped off his clothes and jumped into the shower, scrubbing away the stink of abject failure. He dressed quickly, tried to quiet his mind. He needed to get a grip on himself—there was still so much to do tonight.
He’d left the experiment running at the campus lab, and he needed to get back in time to analyze the samplesbefore they were ruined. But he couldn’t go yet, not with his brain a scattered roar as he faced the reality of this latest failure.
He wasn’t worried about getting caught. He was too careful for that. But it ate at him like acid that once the drugs wore off and she recovered from her wounds, the bitch would be walking around this earth, a living reminder of his weakness.
He gulped down a glass of cold water and flipped on his computer. He checked his e-mail, and the knot in his stomach twisted tighter when he saw he’d received a Google alert about a new article mentioning Nate Brewster.
He didn’t want to read it, didn’t want another reminder of how unworthy he was a successor. But he couldn’t stop himself from clicking on the link that directed him to the article.
It was a long-form article for a Seattle-based magazine, focusing more on Margaret
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