Blood and Bone(17)

My head moves back and forth slowly, refusing to believe anything he says.

He offers me a weak look. "When I found out I was set up and you were my  mark so you could bring me in, I was devastated. You were bait, a trap.  The CIA had no more need of me. I'd been seen, recognized by someone.  They didn't want me dead, they wanted me alive."

I laugh, aghast and confused. "That's ridiculous. Why would they want you alive?"

"They knew if I died the world would know everything I knew." His eyes  narrow. "I've always been one to keep insurance policies on the jobs  I've done. They know me too well to kill me off without a guarantee that  I'm not leaking information to the wrong people."

I shake my head. "I don't understand what any of this has to do with how we got here."

He switches on the bedside lamp, places the box in my lap, and gets up,  leaving the room. I stare at it, unable to move for a moment. The name  on it is Samantha Barnes.

Lifting a shaky hand, I open it, only to be increasingly stunned and scared by its contents. Truly scared.

The first image is like meeting a twin sister for the first time, after  twenty years of separation. The girl looks like me, but she can't be me.  There is no way.

She has blonde hair and so much makeup on that it scares me, literally.  Her face is perfect and glossed with enough makeup to frost a cake. The  second photo is black-and-white, and even still I can see she isn't me.  There is no way. She looks loud and cocky, just with her expression. The  confidence and air of her is smarmy-something I don't think I could be,  even if I were acting. Her thin body has hardly a stitch of clothing  on, and shoes that look like they would break a back. She is walking  through an alley, holding her sunglasses and staring back at someone,  the photographer, maybe. She looks like she is about to smile or she  knows a secret. I shake my head, muttering into the dim light, "That's  not me."

Flipping through the photos is like watching a movie, one I couldn't  possibly be the star of, and yet there I am. Blonde, brunette, redhead.  They are like the photos in the folder Rory gave me, but worse. These  are of me on jobs, real jobs. There are photos of me not working too.  Ones where I am sitting in a café with no makeup and hair in a ponytail,  contemplating life and whatever else a girl like that thinks about. He  has shots of me washing dishes in my kitchen and sleeping in my bed.

It makes me sick to think I didn't know. He was always there.

The last thing in the box is a camera. It's small and cheap looking. I  turn it on, clicking through the photos. They're all of him. He has very  dark hair and a paler complexion. He looks like he's from the East  Coast in these photos. He's walking and eating and drinking and reading.  He's in hotels and a house, and I see now I invaded his space as much  as he did mine. I was watching him and he was watching me, and I suspect  we might have fallen in love this way, through a lens.

I flip to the next picture, but it's a video, not a photo. My body grows  cold as I press "play" and brace myself for the unknown.

The video starts with me recording myself. My hair is bright blonde, and  I have dark-red lipstick on. I lick my lips and whisper, "I don't know  what's going to happen, but you need to do this. You need to choose love  or a job. If you're watching this, then you've discovered who we were.  I'm sorry for that. It's not a perfect world, and the possibility you  would find out was always there." My eyes have a look in them, a look  like I am desperate, but I don't believe the emotions behind the  expression. "You love him, and you want to become someone new, trust me.  I want Samantha Barnes to die." Old me smiles at the camera, and I  don't believe a word she's spoken. She looks behind her, nervously. But I  can see she's holding the camera up to show something beyond the face  she's making. She's showing me something. She looks back. "Don't ever go  back. Trust me." The video ends, and I am convinced she wants me to go  back. I want me to go back. I just don't know where back is, but I do  know the look in those eyes. Something about this video changes  everything. I place the camera back in the box, overwhelmed and scared.         

     



 

He comes back into the room, kneeling in front of me and placing a cold  hand over mine. "I'm sorry you have to go through this. Neither of us  ever wanted you to find out. We wanted a fresh start."

"Why did you lie when I started figuring it out?" My words are breathy and weak.

He squeezes my hand. "Jane, we wanted you to stay hidden from that  world. We both wanted to be free of the people we were. Neither of us  ever wanted the past to catch up with us. We knew it was possible, but  we didn't want it."

"But you continued killing people, even after the fresh start?"

"It's not something I could quit." He has no excuse for himself. "Not  even for you. Believe me, I tried. Going back to it is what kept us both  alive."

My mouth is dry and my heart is pounding. I shake my head, not even  wanting to talk about his murders or what kept me alive. "How did you do  it? How did you take my memories?" I change the subject.

He nods. "Surgery. We performed a surgery to mimic a brain injury and  give you amnesia. I'm so sorry. I wish to God we never had to have this  conversation." His face is sad and guilty.

"You operated on my brain? That's the scar on my head at the back?"

He presses his lips and finally speaks softly. "We have to do it again.  We can't stay here. We have to start over again. That's what you said.  If you ever found out, you wanted us to start over again."

The reality of the situation and what he's threatening me with make my  eyes water. He is going to make it all go away again. As much as I  wished for it only moments ago, now that I'm faced with it, I don't  think I want that. I don't know what to do.

He shakes his head. "Don't think about it tonight, just try to get some  sleep. We'll leave tomorrow. I've made certain we won't be followed this  time." His eyes suddenly have come alive with hope and something else  that sparkles in the dim light. "Do you still love me, Jane?"

I want to shove him back and scream that he's not my boyfriend and I  never want to see him again. I want to panic and freak out that he's  performed some kind of brain surgery on me and sedated me every night. I  want to do a thousand things, but I don't get the chance.

He swallows. "Baby, I'm still me, and you are you. I still love you."

My lower lip trembles. "Are you sure you understand what love is?" The  words are harsh, and considering the things I now see are wrong with  him, they might have been a mistake.

"I can't live without you."

I want to tell him I don't imagine I'll live long with him. I want to tell him several things that never leave my lips.

"Do you love me?" He asks it as if he's confused. I don't answer because  I can't. I do love him, but I don't want this. I don't want to have  brain surgery and have my mind erased again. He nods slowly, backing  away from me. "Don't worry, baby, I can love you enough for both of us."  He says it with a smile, but that doesn't take the chill off the true  meaning in the sentence.

I turn my face to the window as he closes the door. I see how it is with  clarity like I never have before. I now see I will never get away.

Not without killing him first.

He's too smart and too thorough, and I'm afraid he's in control, even  when I think he's lost it. In my mind, if he had wanted a fresh start he  would have stopped killing. To top it all off, I don't believe I made  that video for any reason other than to give myself a clue without being  obvious.





8. SEE JANE RUN

He doesn't sleep with me. He gives me space, or holds me hostage. I'm  not sure which it is. But the moment I hear him snoring on the couch, I  am up instantly and pulling on my clothes. I leave the nightgown in the  bed on the pillows I stuff and pull up. It looks like I am sleeping, but  maybe a little chubbier. I turn the lock on the door softly, listening  to the hallway for a moment.

When I hear nothing but his snoring, I grab my phone and creep to the  window, opening it and looking out. I toss my slippers onto the grassy  ground of our backyard below.

The wind comes in the window, pushing me back. I sigh, hating the  second-story height, and climb up onto the sill. The ledge is narrow and  the wind is strong.

I grip the siding with my sweaty palms and shuffle with my bare feet  along the chilly ledge. The wind pushes at me, flipping my hair and  ruffling my clothes-and sanity. My hands slide along the cold building  until I get to a corner. I climb along the corner to where there is a  roof below me. It's the one over the basement stairs. I take a breath,  force away my disbelief, and jump the fifteen feet down to the grass. My  knees buckle, and I roll until I'm lying on my belly, nearly kissing  the filthy grass. I can't believe I made it out. Getting up quickly, I  jog to my slippers and slip around the far side of the yard to the  fence. It backs onto a huge apartment complex. I run through the parking  lot to a garage.