Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(57)

Clearing her throat, she barely manages to get out, “I need to take the rest of the night off.” I reach for my keys to drive her but she’s already shaking her head, a hand out to stop me, trembling slightly. “No, Cain. Just—” She swallows, her voice hoarse. “No.”

I feel like a dump truck has just slammed into my chest. “Wait. Please tell me you knew about your mother. Please tell me you didn’t just find out.” If she didn’t know, I think I’m going to lose my mind.

I see her hard swallow and then she manages to get out a tight, “Yes. I knew about my mother’s death.”

I reach for her hand but she pulls it away. “I know what it looks like, but you can trust me.”

“You’re wrong, Cain. I actually don’t know anything about you at all.” Spinning on her heels, she’s gone.

Just like that. In seconds, any trust I may have gained . . . lost.

I last about three minutes. I can’t let her leave like that. Despite her protests, I’m on my feet, keys in my hand, and heading toward the door to chase after her. Ginger’s colorful head stops me.

“Is Charlie okay? Levi said she saw her storm out of here.”

I’m already maneuvering my way around her. I don’t have time for Ginger’s antics right now. “No, she’s not.”

Her hand clamps over my arm to stop me. “Wait . . .”

“Not now, Gin—”

“Were you with Charlie yesterday afternoon?”

That slows my steps. Why would she ask that? “No.” I turn to give her a questioning look.

She purses her lips together. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but after what Ben told me happened tonight . . .” She groans. “I need to tell you about yesterday. Maybe you can make sense of it.”

I glance toward the exit door and then back at Ginger, torn between what she might have to say and getting to Charlie.

“I talked to some guy on her phone yesterday. She said he was her father but I’m not so sure.”





chapter twenty


■ ■ ■

CHARLIE

Who the f*ck is George Rourke?

This was supposed to be a fake ID. Fake! But the way Cain just went on, talking about these people I supposedly know, makes me believe that Charlie has a real life involving real people . . .

Charlie is a real person.

Apparently, up until four years ago, a person who probably laughed and cried and partied with her friends. People called her Charlie and she responded. She looked in a mirror and saw a face that was not my face, the one that has assumed her identity.

And then she disappeared without a trace? People don’t just disappear. I know, because I’m trying to. There’s only one explanation that makes sense.

Oh, God.

I’m forced to pull off the road. I barely get my seat belt off and the door open before my stomach’s contents spill out onto the pavement. Thank God it’s late and I’m on a quiet side street with no witnesses aside from the stray cat across the way, inspecting a trash bin. When I have nothing left to expel, I climb back into the driver’s seat. Tears begin to stream, but I wipe them away furiously.

I have to know.

With blood pounding through my ears like an incessant drum, I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It’s just after midnight. Sam will still be up. Despite his age, he’s a night owl and an early riser.

I know I shouldn’t do this. I’m never supposed to contact him, but I need him to convince me that my suspicions are wrong. I punch in the number of the Long Island house from the burner phone, hoping it can’t be traced if there’s a wiretap on the home phone.

With trembling hands and ragged breaths, I wait, my heart feeling like it’s going to give out soon if I don’t find some relief for it. I don’t even know if he’ll be home. He’s hardly ever home . . .

Sam answers on the third ring.

Forcing my fear aside with a hard swallow, I waste no time. “Who was Charlie?”

I hear nothing.

Nothing.

And then a click.

I force myself to breathe as I press the phone to my chest. Did he hear me? Did he think it was a prank call? Should I call back?

The ring that breaks into the silence makes me jump.

I hit “talk,” and listen, pursing my lips.

“Why are you asking?” His tone is low and harsh. Sam can be demanding, but I’ve heard him use this voice only once before—with Dominic that night. I’ll bet he switched phones. He’s probably also in the unfinished cellar. The room is completely bare, making it difficult to hide any bugs within, should someone ever manage to get past Simba and Duke—two of the largest and most unfriendly rottweilers I’ve ever seen.

I grit my teeth, searching for an excuse. In my frenzy, I didn’t consider how this conversation would go. I was simply looking for an answer to calm me. I can’t tell him what I know. I can’t tell him anything about Cain or his investigative practices. Stupid girl! What is happening to me? I’m always so vigilant. Now, when I most need to keep my head, I’m losing it!

But it’s too late. Sam needs an answer. I swallow my fear. “Was she a real person?”

His low, menacing chuckle makes me cringe. “Well, of course she’s real. She’s you.”