Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(12)

With a noisy slurp of my drink—I really did need that caffeine—I stand, give Uncle Jimmy a quick hug, grab the set of car keys lying next to mine on the table, and head off down the street, looking for the white Honda rental.

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I may die of heatstroke before I get through this day. Even with the cold air of this rental car blasting on my face, several beads of sweat still trickle down my forehead. Though that could be due more to nerves than to the hundred-degree temperature. Either way, this wig certainly isn’t helping matters.

Pulling up to the front of the hotel, I throw the car in park and hit the trunk release. And then I pretend to read something on my phone. Really, I’m taking a moment to collect myself while the valet unloads my bag.

This is my life, for now. I must do this. And in an hour, I can package the memory into a tiny ball, stuff it into a box, and pretend that it never really happened.

Until the next time.

When I climb out of the driver’s seat with my empty camera bag, I’m nothing but another smiling tourist. Every fiber in my body wants to grab the handle of that suitcase—which is much bigger than the last drop—but I don’t. I simply show the valet and bellhops my pearly whites as my fist holds a death grip on the piece of paper with the number 1754 scribbled on it.

That’s the hotel room I need to visit.

“I’m just going to drop my things off and then I’ll be back to do some sightseeing. Fifteen minutes, tops. Should we park the car or can I leave it here?” I ask casually.

“Which ever you prefer, miss. We can even hold your luggage at the front desk until you check in later, if you’d like.” He’s a grandfatherly-looking man with white hair and a kind smile. He probably has lovely grandchildren, whom he plays with and hugs.

I haven’t seen or heard from my grandparents since I was three. All I know anymore is Sam.

“Oh, thank you so much. My boyfriend has already checked in, though. I’m just going to freshen up and then head back out while he’s working.” I fake a yawn, my quick thinking surprising even me sometimes. “Long flight and all.”

“Of course.”

We’re walking into the main lobby when I hand him a ten-dollar bill and stealthily maneuver my hand around the handle of my suitcase. “I’ll take it from here.”

He begins to object but I flash him a grin. “It’s okay. It’s just one bag and it has wheels. Besides, I like the exercise.” And you don’t want to be anywhere near this suitcase, grandpa.

With a delayed nod of thanks, the kind man heads back outside.

And I release the smallest breath of relief. That was the easy part.

If I let myself think about it for one second, what I’m walking into is downright terrifying. So I don’t think about it. I blank my mind and pretend I’m about to go onstage as I wheel the bag into the elevator and hit the seventeenth-floor button. In a way, I am. I’m certainly playing a role.

Leaning against the cool wall, I watch the buttons light up, sure to keep my face angled down, away from the security cameras. And I wonder, for the thousandth time, how I got myself into this mess. How could I have done things differently? What is it about me that made this arrangement a wise bet for Sam? Was this what I was always meant to be? Or was it meant to be my mother? Some people might wonder what drew a smart, wealthy New York businessman to a twenty-one-year-old stripper with a child. Aside from her stunning beauty, of course. But, had she not died, would she be standing in this elevator right now, instead of me? Am I merely a delayed substitute?

And did she know what kind of world she was bringing her daughter into?

Twelve years ago, I stepped into a fairy tale. My new stepdad had taken my tiny hand and led me into a room doused in purple and brimming with toys, books, and clothes. Everything needed to win a six-year-old’s love and devotion. And win it, he did. Sam showered me with more affection, more gifts, and more attention than I could ever possibly imagine. Everything I could want and things I could never dream of.

Like the day Becky Taylor said her daddy loved her more than mine loved me because he bought her a pony. The fact that I never even met my real dad made that sting so much more than it should have. I’m not the type of kid to cry, but that day I came home crying.

A few weeks later, for my ninth birthday, I found a black stallion with a yellow bow around his neck tied to a tree in our backyard. It was the best birthday present I’d ever received, and it solidified how much more Sam loved me because he didn’t buy me a measly pony. He bought me a racehorse.

I named him Black Jack. Not very original as far as racehorse names go, but Sam said it was perfect. On the day that Black Jack won at the Belmont, Sam was the one hoisting me up onto the horse’s back. A photo of that still sits framed on Sam’s desk at home, making him appear the proud, doting father.

An illusion. For outsiders, for me. Maybe even for himself.

I didn’t notice for a long time that Sam might be “different.” I mean, he was my dad and the only person I had. And besides, I was “different” too. Exceptionally intelligent, according to all of the aptitude tests. But with those results came reports that I was unusually inexpressive. “Morose,” some jackass teacher called me in a parent-teacher interview, because I didn’t gallop around, hooting and hollering and giggling, like every other kid around me. “Weird,” I heard some kids whisper not so discreetly behind my back.