Then I grabbed a shower. By the time I came out, the noise in the other room had quieted, and about the time I’d gone to the kitchen to make something to eat, Marcus and Lisa came shuffling out. He was wearing a pair of sweats. She had on a pair of his boxers and one of his old Boise State University hoodies. They both looked thoroughly fucked, and I was both amused and just a tad jealous. I hadn’t been touched in months.

  Maybe that’ll change in the next few days?

  The thought gave me goose bumps. It was probably a really bad idea to jump into bed with Brandon. On the other hand, it was probably a really good idea to screw each other a few times so by the time we started trying to sort us out, we wouldn’t be thinking with our little heads anymore.

  I shook myself and refocused on making my sandwich.

  Marcus and Lisa were, of course, flirty and physical while they figured out their own dinner. I had mixed feelings about them. They were cute together, and it was good to see Marcus happy again. We’d spent months commiserating about our exes, and his new relationship had me both jealous and encouraged. I envied him moving on from Tiffany. I also had a tiny glimmer of hope now that I too could move forward.

  Move forward from Andrew? With or without Brandon?

  My stomach roiled, the sandwich on my plate suddenly about as appetizing as the one I’d been trying to eat when he’d shown up last night.

  “Do you mind if we join you?” Marcus’s question pulled me out of my thoughts, and I looked up to see the two of them watching me.

  I cleared my throat and gestured at the empty chairs. “Sure. Yeah.”

  They sat down, Marcus with a can of beer and Lisa with a bottle of water. Marcus’s phone was face up with a food delivery app showing on the screen, so they must’ve ordered something. Fine by me.

  The three of us made light conversation while they drank and I ate. Lisa was nice enough, and it was good to see Marcus smiling again, even if the absolutely lovesick looks he kept throwing her made me want to toss cold water on him. A little jealousy, yeah, but also… I mean, dude—you just met her. Calm the hell down.

  Lisa wasn’t Marcus’s usual type. She was tall and slim, while he usually gravitated toward petite and curvy women. She’d also aggressively pursued him, which he’d never cared for. Three nights in a row, he’d said, “Oh my God, this girl just will not take ‘I’m not interested’ for an answer.” The fourth night… Well, she must’ve gotten his attention somehow, because they’d spent that night knocking the plaster off the walls, and she’d been here almost every night since. Now he was gazing at her like she’d hung the damn moon.

  Apparently persistence paid off sometimes.

  She did seem sweet, though, and he seemed really taken with her southern charm. And, well, there was that whole furniture-breaking side of things. Marcus would admittedly put up with a lot in exchange for good sex, and from his blissed-out grin every time they came out of the bedroom, she was more than making up for any personality shortcomings she might’ve had. We’d see how things went after the honeymoon phase wore off. I suspected all three of us would be getting more sleep. Or maybe they could go to her place once in a while.

  As I was finishing up my sandwich, Lisa flashed me a grin. “No boyfriend tonight?” She turned to Marcus. “I thought you said his man was back.”

  “Uh…” I glanced at Marcus, puzzled.

  He sighed, cheeks darkening a little, and put a hand on her back. “Babe. I told you—they’re working on it.”

  Her lips quirked. Then she gestured toward the living room. “You’re all packed up. You goin’ out of town?”

  I shrugged. “Hopefully. Still working out logistics.”

  “But you’re already packed?” She gave me an odd look. “Puttin’ the cart before the horse, ain’t ya?”

  “Hey, don’t talk him out of it, baby.” Marcus wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled the back of her neck. “If he goes, we get the whole house to ourselves.”

  She giggled, but glanced toward the living room again, then at me. “We aren’t chasin’ you out, are we? We can keep it down if—”

  “No, no.” I laughed and waved my hand even as heat rose in my face. And truthfully, I was even more determined to go to the cabin with Brandon instead of coming here. Lisa was nice and all, but she could be a bit nosy, and she also had that “I’m new in town and don’t know anybody” clinginess that could be a bit much. That could all admittedly get a little old; I wasn’t about to subject Brandon to it. Things were just a bit too precarious with him right now. I didn’t want a well-intentioned but too-personal question to spook him or me away before we’d had a chance to lay everything out.

  So, yeah. The cabin was definitely a good idea.

  Though I’d still sleep on it. I still needed to make sure I really wanted to commit myself to disappearing into the mountains with this man who clearly wanted me back when I wasn’t so sure where I stood. There was just so much potential for things to get supremely awkward.

  And so much potential for us to go back to what we were before.

  Yeah, I’d sleep on it. I’d give myself a little time to think about it.

  But I had no doubt we’d be heading for the cabin tomorrow.

  Chapter 6

  Brandon

  I couldn’t remember any of the nightmares that had shaken me out of bed last night. I remembered waking up sweating and out of breath, trembling all over and extra freaked out by my unfamiliar surroundings, but the dreams themselves faded away as soon as my eyes flew open.

  Each time, I’d check to make sure my pistol was still on the nightstand. At least twice, I got up to confirm the door was locked. Then I’d lie in the uncomfortable bed, do some slow, deep breathing, and eventually pass out again.

  At some point, I woke to gray light coming in past the ugly curtains, so I didn’t bother trying to go back to sleep. Instead, I shuffled in to take a shower and tried to wake up completely. Some awful motel room coffee helped too, if only because the taste was so terrible, it yanked me into full awareness of the godawful crap I’d put in my mouth.

  By eight, I still hadn’t heard from Seth, and I was getting restless in the motel room. So, I went for a drive. I was staying in town, not far from where I’d lived as Andrew Keller, and everything around me was familiar. The streets. The buildings. The signs. I still knew my way around.

  Down by the waterfront, I parked and started wandering between shops and restaurants I’d known for half a decade. Being here was so weird, though. As sentimental as I was about Coeur d’Alene—as attached as I’d become to it—I’d never felt as anchored here as I needed to be. Always like a little bit of an outsider, even if no one knew it but me. I’d gotten used to this town after I’d moved here, but it was never home because my identity had never been home. Even when I’d believed I would be Andrew Keller for the rest of my life, it had never quite felt right. Never entirely permanent. It was like some of the cities where I’d been stationed during my time in the military—they were places where I’d made a lot of memories, for better or worse, but I’d only planted the shallowest of roots.

  I’d spent a lot of my first year in witsec feeling lost, untethered, and confused. That had faded over time, but it never went away completely. It was like I’d put on a pair of brand-new shoes that didn’t quite fit. Over time, I’d broken them in enough that they were easier to walk in, but they would never feel like shoes that had been made for me.

  Something like that, anyway.

  That was why I’d balked when my witness inspector had told me I was getting another new identity. I couldn’t go through it again. I just couldn’t. Though they’d discouraged me from returning to my old life, warning that I would no longer be under the protection of witsec, I’d ultimately left the program. I’d reclaimed my old identity.

  And it turned out that the only thing that sucked more than getting lost in a new identity was getting lost in the old one. The life of Brandon Gaines didn’t feel like home anymore.

  Sighing as I walked, I scrubbed a hand over my face.

  I don’t know who I am.

  That kept echoing in my brain. Having a target on my back and a price on my head was terrifying. Not knowing who I was? That was… I couldn’t describe how that fucked with my head. How unsettling it was, that disconnect from my own identity as I walked through a life that wasn’t mine anymore, whether that life was Brandon’s or Andrew’s.

  I’m going insane.

  Yeah. Probably. But who wouldn’t lose their minds when—

  Movement in my peripheral vision turned my head, and I made eye contact with a woman a second before she dropped her attention to her phone. She wandered on, following the sidewalk toward a row of shops.

  I pulled my gaze away but kept watching her in the reflection on a nearby car. She never once looked my way.

  My imagination, then. I was paranoid. Paranoia had been my natural state for so long, I didn’t know how to breathe without being vigilant for the next potential threat. The oh shit adrenaline surge when someone looked at me the wrong way or did something out of the ordinary, or when a car door slammed or someone dropped something—that feeling had been such a constant companion, I didn’t remember life without it. I could no longer differentiate between sensing actual danger and habitual paranoia. It was hard not to be afraid of shadows when someone really had been gunning for me.

  I could usually shake off that feeling quickly, though. I’d remind myself I was well-hidden by the marshals, and the likelihood of someone finding me—never mind recognizing me—was virtually nil.

  But then someone had found me. Or at least they’d caught wind that I was alive and in hiding somewhere, which had been enough to spook the marshals into yanking me, and now I really was out in the open. I was Brandon Gaines again—sort of—and despite everyone who gave a damn about me being either dead or in prison, the paranoia was back with a vengeance. I tried to shake off that oh shit feeling now like I always had, but even after the woman had long since disappeared from view, my senses still prickled with danger.

  I hated this. I hated being paranoid because paranoia had been second nature for so long, I couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t. It was fucking exhausting, and it had only gotten worse since I’d stepped out of my protective identity. Obviously I hadn’t been truly safe in that persona—still had no idea how anyone had found out about me or how close they’d actually come to finding me—but I’d at least felt safe for a while.

  Which probably meant I’d never feel safe again. If I wasn’t safe, secure, and untraceable under the watchful eye of the witness protection program, then where the fuck would I be?

  I shivered. That was a daunting thought.

  In an effort to get rid of some nervous energy and just move around, I walked down to the Floating Boardwalk. It was wildly exposed, jutting out into the lake and curving around for like three thousand feet before connecting to land again. As counterintuitive as it was, though, the walk was safe and soothing. If I was in a sniper’s crosshairs, well, there wouldn’t be much I could do. There was nowhere I could go except into the lake, and at this point…

  Hell, if someone found me with a rifle scope, then whatever. I’d never been quite this nihilist or defeatist, but I didn’t think I’d ever felt this low, either. I’d been ripped apart emotionally when the marshals had had to tell my parents I was dead, and when I’d seen the mix of grief and relief on their faces when they found out I was alive. I’d been through absolute hell, so yeah, emotionally, I’d been so far beneath rock bottom, it was difficult to imagine at times.

  Right now, I wasn’t lower than that, per se, but I was… numb. Empty. As if I’d just completely run out of any will to keep moving forward or keep trying to hold on to anything familiar. I wasn’t suicidal, but I couldn’t say I was really bothered by the idea of a sniper’s bullet.

  It really is time to see a therapist, isn’t it?

  I wasn’t sure there was much point anymore, but it probably wouldn’t make things worse. Maybe after this trip, since God knew I’d have even more to tell said therapist about.

  My boyfriend just found out he fell in love with my witsec persona, and now he wants nothing to do with the real me.

  Sounded less like a conversation starter with a therapist and more like the headline for a daytime talk show.

  Sighing, I stopped about two hundred feet out on the boardwalk, leaned against the railing, and gazed out at the peaceful, familiar water. I’d walked along these planks a million times with Seth. Our second date had taken us out here at one point, walking and talking while I’d tried to work up the nerve to kiss him. That was always risky out in public, and it was always risky with a new guy, but my God, I’d wanted to kiss him so bad I could barely follow our conversation.

  And then, about twenty feet from where I was standing now…

  I closed my eyes as the memory of Seth’s lips against mine sent a pleasant shiver down my spine. In that moment, I’d forgotten everything. Why I was in Idaho in the first place. Who I’d been. How much I had to lie to him and everyone else. I hadn’t been Brandon or Andrew—just a man who was utterly smitten with this cute sandy-blond cop and his lopsided smile and his perfect, gentle kiss. Then and there, I’d known there was something between us. That even while everything else in my world was confusing and wrong, I could be this man who Seth Byrne kissed like that.

  That was exactly who I’d been for three amazing years. I’d thought forever was on the table. Right up until—

  “Pack a bag. We have to go.”

  “What? What’s going—”

  “You’ve been compromised. We have to go. Now.”

  I let my eyes flutter open, and I sighed as I gazed out at the water. Sometimes it felt like that was the day it had all gone wrong, but I knew better. My world had gone to shit long before Andrew Keller ever set foot in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.

  My mind drifted back to a time when I’d thought life couldn’t get any more complicated. When Brandon Gaines still existed, Rhys Conway was still alive, and Seth Byrne still hadn’t met a ghost named Andrew Keller.

  On that particular afternoon, I was sitting in a blandly appointed conference room in the courthouse for a deposition. The room was crowded, too. The prosecution team. The defense team. The court reporter. Every breath I took smelled of bad coffee and some weird air freshener. Someone was tapping a pen. Someone else was scratching notes on a yellow legal pad. At the moment, the court reporter’s fingers were still, the clacking of keys silent while I faced the defense attorneys across the table.

  They had four attorneys present, but I fixated on one in particular, and I wondered if anyone could hear my molars grinding with automatic irritation over his presence. I wasn’t at all surprised that the Brotherhood had retained Charlie Butler for their defense. They had several lawyers, in fact, but good ol’ Charlie took the lead.

  I fucking hated that guy. We’d crossed paths numerous times in the courtroom when I’d been testifying in this or that case. I hated how he’d use his southern gentleman shtick to charm jurors, giving that big smile and speaking with that drawl so no one could possibly accuse him of being a despicable human being. Once, on the way out of the courtroom, Rhys had muttered, “It’s like listening to Colonel goddamned Sanders win over a bunch of chickens.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Hell, even the man’s ex-wives and kids all hightailed it home to South Carolina to get away from him. Though the adult children had started slinking back when Daddy promised prestigious educations, high-paying jobs, and hefty inheritances to those who toed the line and proved their loyalty. Apparently ruthless greed was hereditary.

  To say the least, seeing Charlie play first chair defense attorney for a group of white supremacists was—honestly, it wasn’t just unsurprising; it seemed kind of on the nose. But who better to defend unapologetic racists than the most unapologetically racist asshat in town? He’d been doing it for decades; that was how he’d made himself one of the richest asshats in town. It wasn’t for nothing that people said he probably wouldn’t be too hard to find at a Klan rally—he’d be loud as hell, but he’d also pull up in his Aston Martin and put on a hood made out of three-hundred-thread count Egyptian cotton.

  God, I hated him.

  And now he was defending cops who’d used their badges to protect their own Neo Nazi militia group. And here I was, sitting opposite him in this dull room, under oath and waiting for him to start asking questions.

  “Mr. Gaines,” he began.

  “Detective Gaines,” Janelle, one of the prosecutors, broke in.

  “Ah, of course,” Charlie drawled with that big gentlemanly smile. “I do apologize, Detective.”

  I wondered if anyone else saw the cold evil in those squinted blue eyes. If they could see past the charming crinkles to the frosty depths. Or maybe I was just mentally superimposing it because I knew what a nasty son of a bitch he was.

  He folded his hands on top of his legal pad. “Detective Gaines, would you kindly tell the court how you came to believe my clients are involved in”—he peered at his pad as if he couldn’t actually remember—“white supremacist militia activities?”

  I gritted my teeth. Tell the court, my ass. Typical Charlie—he was supposed to be deposing me, but he was rehearsing his courtroom charm, which he’d lay on thick to win over the jury.

  “My partner—Detective Conway—and I interviewed the suspect in a murder,” I explained evenly. “The victim was a star witness against the defendants, and our suspect indicated his family had been threatened if he didn’t take the fall for the murder.”

  “This sounds like hearsay, Mr.—Detective Gaines.”

  I wasn’t going to have any teeth left by the end of this. That was one of Charlie’s favorite games—to put the bug in the jury’s ear that something was hearsay, and therefore automatically invalid. He and I knew—but many jurors didn’t know—that hearsay could be admissible, and anyway, “I was told my family would be killed if I didn’t do X, Y, and Z” wasn’t hearsay.