Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(44)

‘Can I bring you something to eat?’ she asks.

‘Sure,’ I say, although I’m not really hungry. But it will give her something to do, something that will keep her away for a little while longer.

‘Steve called, looking for you. I told him you were here.’ She hugs herself tighter. ‘He’s coming by.’

I pretend that this is not an inconvenience. ‘OK.’

‘He said something about talking to Frank Cooper.’

I stop breathing for a second. Has Frank finally discovered who I really am? I try to keep my tone light. ‘Did he talk to him? Is there some news?’

Jeanine shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him when he gets here. I’ll get you some food.’ She disappears out the door, leaving me alone.

I flip up the laptop cover to see a message from Tracker.

Got it.

I know he means the password for the firewall. I am crushed; the old competitiveness is back.

You’ve been away a long time, he writes, and again I am struck by how much our minds meld. We were like this back in the day; it has been so easy to fall into our old rhythm.

What do you have? I ask.

Current credit card number and an address. He has gone even further than the firewall. He has gotten all the way in. I am kicking myself for giving it all up, for not being able to hold my own anymore.

I have done a complete one-eighty. Just a couple of weeks ago, I was content with my life, the life I’d created for myself.

Within seconds, the information Tracker has discovered appears on my screen. I scan it. Paul Michaels lives in Los Angeles.

But this isn’t all I need anymore. I’ve got another name. Amelie Renaud.

Give me a few minutes.

I want to beat him to this one, but I don’t have time to do anything because the door opens and Jeanine comes in with a plate. It’s full of sprouts and sliced tomatoes and cucumbers and chick peas. I pick up the scent of raspberries. She has given me some of her homemade vinaigrette. A crispy flatbread sits next to the salad.

‘I hope this is OK,’ she says apologetically, her eyes veering toward the laptop screens. I have not closed them. ‘What are you doing?’ The question is pointed; she expects an answer.

‘I’m trying to find out information about the man who’s on the island,’ I explain.

She puts the plate down next to me, and I pick up the fork and spear a tomato. It is sweet and juicy, and I realize I’m hungrier than I thought.

‘The man you’ve been sleeping with?’ she asks, her eyebrows rising into her forehead.

‘The one and the same,’ I say.

‘I thought you said his name was Zeke.’ She notices that I am looking at information on Paul Michaels.

‘No. It’s not.’ I don’t know how much more I can say without telling her everything.

‘So what is his name?’

Just then, a message pops up on the screen, distracting her.

‘Who’s Tracker?’

But I am not thinking about how to explain it to her. I am seeing that Tracker has found Amelie. She is in Paris.

I am not quite sure how to process this. Amelie Renaud is a real person, not just a figment of my imagination. Not just a name on a passport that I have used.

The passport.

I used it when I came back. It was in my backpack as I crossed over to the island on the ferry.

I never got rid of it. I didn’t expect to stay here, so I kept it close by for another quick escape. But as the years passed, I almost forgot that it existed. When I close my eyes, I can see its hiding place.

Its expiration date is long past. But I need to go get it. Before the police find it.





TWENTY-THREE


‘Who is Tracker?’ Jeanine is still asking. She has pulled up a stool and is staring at my screens. ‘What’s that?’ She points at the code.

‘I just needed to find out some information,’ I say.

‘From where?’ Her tone is casual, but I can see the determination in her eyes. She does not want to be left out. ‘Who is Tracker?’ she repeats, not willing to give it up.

‘An old friend. He’s helping me.’

‘Helping you do what?’

I stall by taking a big forkful of salad. In the meantime, the door creaks open and Steve sticks his head in. He looks from me to Jeanine and then at the computers in front of me.

‘So have you told her, then?’ he asks, coming in and shutting the door behind him.

‘She has told me very little,’ Jeanine says, with a bit of an attitude. ‘I’ve brought her food and a laptop, but she won’t say much. She’s got some friend named Tracker.’

‘Oh, yes, Tracker,’ Steve says, as though he and Tracker go way back. I am still eating, hoping to stall as long as possible.

‘So you know who this Tracker person is?’ Jeanine demands, her hands on her hips as she confronts him.

Steve gives her a smile. ‘Yes.’ And he turns to me. ‘Nicole, are you going to tell her?’

If I tell Jeanine, that’s one more person who knows. One more person whom I will probably be putting in danger. She can get the Reader’s Digest version. I swallow, then say, ‘Zeke isn’t Zeke. He’s an old boyfriend named Ian, and he’s been looking for me because I left him without even leaving a note.’