by Lexi Ryan
It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t hurt Tanner by letting him fall in love with her when her death was imminent. If she decided she needed to do the DNA conversion and it wasn’t successful, she wouldn’t have him grieve her, not like the haggard heartbroken man in her visions.
“Aw, Josie,” Paige whispered, “why don’t you talk to us? Tell us what’s on your mind.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “All this stuff just has me thinking about my family.”
Paige and Chrissie frowned, then crossed the room, each leaning over the desk and embracing her.
Chrissie held on a little longer than necessary.
Josie jerked away. “Stop that!”
Chrissie’s eyes were wide, her mouth agape. “You had a sister? I don’t remember a sister.”
Josie closed her eyes. As much as she wanted to know what Greyly knew about the mysterious Mallory, she wasn’t real keen on sharing the identifying symptom of her post-traumatic psychoses. “I don’t. I was an only child.”
Chrissie and Paige exchanged glances.
“Jo,” Chrissie said softly, “I just saw a memory from your childhood. You were playing in the sprinkler. There was another little girl with you. She looked just like you.” Chrissie reached out, but Josie shook her head and withdrew from the touch.
“You can tell us, Jo,” Paige said.
Josie walked to the window where she studied the shadows cast by the street lamps. “She’s not real.” She heard the girls shift behind her, but she let the uncomfortable silence fill the office for a dozen heartbeats before she spoke. “I am young in all my memories—or whatever you want to call them—of her. And I never thought about it until after my parents died. Then, suddenly, I remembered.” She didn’t talk about this. Not ever. She was as opposed to discussing her childhood illusions as she was to sharing the visions she had of the future. “And when I started asking about my sister, they sent me to the hospital.”
“You did have a sister,” Paige whispered.
“Shh!” Chrissie scolded behind Josie. “She said she’s not real.”
“Right,” Paige whispered. “I’ll try to keep up.”
Josie’s chest shook with laughter, even as the tears filled her eyes. God bless good friends. “The therapist said my ‘sister’ was an illusion I’d created so I wouldn’t feel so alone. It was so long ago. I don’t remember much. I screamed and fought. They were lying. They were keeping my sister from me and I knew it. But I remember the therapist asking me to tell her about my sister, about the things we did together, about my memories. So I did. And she was right. The only ‘memories’ I had were from when I was young. Ten? Twelve? And they were few.” She trailed off, focusing on swallowing the ball of cotton lodged in her throat.
“After my parents died, suddenly I couldn’t stop thinking about her. They showed me legal documents about my family, family photos. Where was this sister? I spent months going through visualization exercises, re-imagining each memory and forcing my mind to accept the fact that I was alone. I had no family left.”
Chrissie closed the space between them and rubbed her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Josie.”
“Me, too,” Paige said. She came up behind her on the other side and leaned her head against her arm.
Josie turned to Chrissie and held out her hand. “Can you look and tell me what you see?”
Chapter Twelve
Quinton Greyly frowned as Josie Bovard sat on the edge of his desk, legs crossed, makeup heavy.
She looked him up and down. “I need to know what you found in my apartment. Who broke in? My apartment manager said he turned the security tapes over to you.”
He pushed his chair back, trying to put some space between them. He’d already told her the tapes had nothing. What had gotten into her? “I really don’t have anything new for you, Ms. Bovard.” He shook his head. She was acting like she didn’t even remember the e-mails they’d exchanged this morning. “I’m sorry, but I thought you were here about something else.”
Her eyes widened. “What’s that?”
He frowned. Maybe she’d been concussed and the doctor hadn’t seen it? Hell, if he’d thought a healthy arm was broken, it was pretty likely he could miss a concussion. “Mallory?”
She cocked her head, looking flummoxed. “Who’s Mallory?”
He pulled a hand over his face. “Are we really going to play this game?” His intercom beeped and he sighed and hit the button. “Yeah?”
“Sergeant, Josie Bovard’s here to see you?” his receptionist said.
He narrowed his eyes at the Josie on his desk and she scrambled to her feet.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
“Can I send her in?” his receptionist asked.
“By all means,” he said, casting a meaningful look at the blonde across from him.
She darted for the door, and he grabbed her arm, yanking her back in the room.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, pulling out his cuffs. “You’re staying right here.” He cuffed her to the drawer of his desk. She yanked at the cuff but didn’t even get the satisfaction of the drawer sliding out. It was locked.
She chewed her lip. “Please let me go.”
“Not a chance,” he said, putting his keys on the filing cabinet against the opposite wall.
“The sexual harassment charge I’m going to bring down on you—”
“Just try it.”
Another Josie strode into his office and jumped back two steps when she saw her twin. “Mallory?” Josie whispered.
The other Josie’s eyes darted to the door. She yanked at the cuffs and winced.
“Who are you?” Quinton repeated, grabbing her unbound left wrist.
No scar.
He checked the other.
“What are you doing? I’ll scream, I swear.”
The less-made-up Josie held up her scarred wrist and gestured outside with a nod of her head. “Can we talk somewhere private?”
Quinton narrowed his eyes at the woman cuffed to his desk.
“Mallory won’t go anywhere,” Josie said.
“Why do you keep calling me that?” she growled.
Quinton pulled the other Josie into the hallway and closed his office door behind him.
The second the door clicked behind them, this Josie burst into tears.
“Crap,” Quinton said, dragging her into the examination room down the hall.
“She’s real?” Josie put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, I can’t believe it. All these years I thought I was crazy.” She swallowed. Then looked him in the eyes. “Tell me you see her. Tell me I’m not hallucinating.”
“I see her,” he muttered. But the woman in his office, whoever she was, wasn’t Mallory.
***
Tara swallowed her panic and thought fast. She closed her eyes and remembered the handsome Quinton Greyly. Brown hair, military cut, strong jaw, sharp eyes. When she opened her eyes, she looked down and his body was hers. Only now it was dressed in a halter top, a shorter-than-short jean skirt, and stilettos.
With her free hand, she hit the intercom button.
“Yeah?” the receptionist snapped.
Friendly.
“Um, if you have a minute,” she said, wrinkling her nose—well, the officer’s—when the voice came out deep, husky, and one-hundred-percent male. She still wasn’t used to how well this shifting thing could work—or not well if she didn’t know stupid details like scars. The change in her voice had been minimal her first few shifts, but Collin had helped her learn to focus her thoughts and make the shift complete—from face, to body, to voice. She glanced down.
But not clothes.
“I need a favor,” she said into the intercom.
“Well, I need a hundred grand and a latte, what’s your point?” the receptionist sassed.
“Help me out, and I’ll buy you lattes every morning for the rest of the year.”
There was a long pause. Finally, the woman said, “Starbucks?”
“I’ve be in there in two minutes.”
“Make it one, and I’ll make it a latte and a muffin.”
“Deal,” she said.
The receptionist was a round black woman in a no-nonsense black dress and a matching scowl. When she opened the door to Greyly’s office, that scowl turned into the grin of a child on Christmas morning.
“Oh, dear Lord above, this is sweet. Let me run and get my camera phone.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Tara said, not because she really didn’t want the woman to take a picture of Greyly like this—the ass had cuffed her to the desk and deserved it—but because she thought that was what Greyly would say. Besides, she was in a bit of a hurry.
The woman tried to pout but couldn’t keep her lip from twitching when she looked at her boss.
“I’m in a bit of a pickle,” Tara said, tapping her hairy, stilettoed foot.
The woman snorted. “Honey, you in a whole lot more than that.”
“I seem to have left the keys to my cuffs on the filing cabinet,” Tara said. “I need you to get me out of here before someone sees me.”
The woman chuckled and shook her head. “Man, oh man, I must have some caffeine addiction. It just might be worth losing that to pull your officers in here right now.”
Tara swallowed and looked at the door. “I’m begging you.”
“Well, all right, then.” But when she came around the desk to help, she let out another delighted squeal of laughter at the sight of Greyly’s exposed—and very hairy—legs and stilettos.
“I can explain,” Tara said, trying to imagine how Greyly might explain such a thing.
The woman shook her head. “Nah, I’d much rather you didn’t, sir. There are some things I just don’t wanna know.”
***
“You’re not Mallory,” Quinton said.
“No,” Josie shook her head. “I’ve told you that. Wasn’t that Mallory in your office?”
“I...don’t think so.” But how many identical drop-dead gorgeous blond bombshells could there be? “Can we talk?”
Josie’s phone rang in her purse, and she reached for it. “I’m sorry,” she said, swiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I’m expecting a really important phone call.” She looked at the display on her phone and her eyes lit up.
She held up a finger and connected the call. “Aaron, please tell me you found something good.”
Her smile grew. “Okay,” she said. “Call him back and tell him I can meet him. I’ll come back to the office now but send me a text about when and where as soon as you know.” She disconnected the call and took a deep breath, her cheeks flushing.
Quinton couldn’t get over how much she looked like Mallory, yet the more he looked at her, the more surprised he was that he’d ever thought they might be the same person. They could be twins, yes, but just as each twin had her own look about her, Josie’s smile and mannerisms were nothing like Mallory’s.
“Good news?” he asked.
She hugged herself and rubbed her bare arms. “I hope so.” She glanced down at her phone again. “Listen, I can’t believe I’m doing this when Mallory is in the other room, but I have to go.”
“You’re sure it’s Mallory?” he asked.
She cocked her head. “Who else would it be?”
A damn good question.
“Don’t let her go anywhere, okay?” she said.
“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t.”
She grinned. “I have so many questions.”
“You’re not the only one,” he muttered, but she was already out the door.
***
Tara strode along the busy D.C. streets, all the way down to the Metro, behind Josie. It was easy enough to blend with the crowd as a small Asian-American woman. The text came through as they rode the crowded Metro toward Stilettos, Inc. headquarters.
Too easy, Tara thought, leaning over and seeing the message Josie’s assistant had sent to her:
Torpedo Factory, Alexandria, 2:30am
***
Quinton walked back into his office to retrieve the Mallory look-alike, and it was empty.
He stepped back out to check the nameplate, as if his office could have moved of its own volition since he left fifteen minutes ago.
“Shit,” he murmured, going back in and around his desk to see what kind of damage she’d done escaping. Since he was expecting to see the drawer torn apart, he blinked when there was no sign of damage.
And no sign of his cuffs.
He grabbed his briefcase and went to the front. “Rhonda,” he asked the receptionist, “did you see anyone leave my office?”
She looked him up and down and raised an eyebrow. “That a trick question? Because you’re not getting out of bringing my latte.”
“What? No—” He shook his head “My handcuffs, have you seen them? Or anything else...funny?”
“Sergeant, I’ve seen more than my fair share of funny today.” She slid her purse on her shoulder and stood. “And now I’m going home.”
“Have a nice night.” What the hell was she talking about? The could-be-twins? There had been two of them, hadn’t there?
He dug his hand in his hair. He was losing it.
“Latte and a muffin.” She pushed open the door. “And maybe a few shopping tips,” she said, looking him up and down again. “Them were some damn cute shoes.”
***
“Would you please quit giving me that look?” Darian said. “How the hell was I supposed to know it wasn’t Paige?”
Tanner threw himself back in his chair and tossed down his pencil. “I don’t know. You’re in love, don’t you just know?”
Darian let out a long breath and ran his hand through his hair. “Hell, in retrospect, she wasn’t acting right, but I had no reason to be on guard. Are there even any Shifters around here anymore?”
“Only one in the database,” Tanner said. “And she’s a suspected Ascendant.”
“Jesus, this whole thing stinks of them.”
“You can say that again,” Tanner muttered. He pressed redial on his phone, and as he listened to the line ring, he snatched up the notes Darian had taken before he’d lost the journal. “What’s this about Keys?” he asked, slamming the phone down when he got Josie’s voice mail again.
“I don’t know,” Darian said. “The Keys will unlock the Keeper’s power was all it said.”
Tanner tapped his fingers against the desk. Even unencrypted, the woman’s messages were cryptic. “Why does that seem familiar?”
Darian stood and stretched. “I don’t know man, but I need to get home. I don’t want Paige alone until this is resolved.”
Tanner nodded and waved absently. He reached for the phone again. “Fuck it,” he muttered when her got Josie’s voice mail again. “Josie, there’s a Shifter running around. She/he/whatever impersonated Paige to Darian. Just...be careful. Things might not be as they appear.” He glanced at his watch. “And call me back to let me know you got this, okay? This would be a hell of a lot easier if you weren’t dodging my calls.”
***
Mallory Aston waited in Quinton’s apartment. It had been easy enough to track him down, and easier still to let herself in. Only now was she beginning to come to her senses.
Why did she think he would want to see her after all these years? What made her think he would forgive the way she’d ended their relationship? And, moreover, why the hell did she assume he was still single?
All good questions. None of which had she asked herself before hopping on the plane to D.C. when she needed a place to run from her father’s controlling rule.
Someone fumbled with a set of keys outside the door, and she folded her legs under herself on the couch. Too late to turn back now. She worried her lip between her teeth, and then the door opened.
He had a gun in his hand.
Her pulse fluttered and her mouth went dry—reactions that had nothing to do with
the gun.
There he was. Quinton. Her college love affair. The American boy she’d never gotten over.
Except he was older now. Older and broader. And pissed.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked.
“I—” But she stopped talking altogether at the sound of the bullet sliding into the chamber.
***
The body in Tara’s trunk was gray, lifeless, and staring up at her.
“What is it?” Collin said, stepping off Rider’s front porch, cigarette in his hand.
Tara was vaguely aware of him grabbing her hand when he reached her side.
“Shit,” he muttered.
She tried to swallow, but a ball of horror stuck in her throat, threatening to push free and bring everything she’d ever eaten with it. “He’s dead.”
Collin squeezed her hand a final time before dropping it. “Yes, he is. Go in the house and wait.”
She shook her head. She had wanted this. She wanted to be in the thick of the action. Just like her sister was. She wasn’t backing off now. “Isn’t that—isn’t it? But I just saw—”
Collin looked over his shoulder. They were alone on the dusky street. “Tara, go inside.”
“Should I call my sister?”
Collin narrowed his eyes. “What could Paige do here that I can’t?”
She could make me feel better.
Chapter Thirteen
Quinton couldn’t remember the last time his goddamn hands shook when he held a gun, but they were shaking now. He’d had a fucking hell of a day, and now she was in his apartment—whoever the hell she was.
He’d seen enough of Josie Bovard in the last week that he could rule her out pretty quickly, and he didn’t think it was the heavily made-up Josie he’d cuffed to his desk.