The Blonde Identity: A Novel

“Oh, I know you’re closing soon. I won’t be long!”

“Don’t forget, you’re Alex.” Sawyer’s voice was a warning in her ear, so Zoe stood a little straighter but she couldn’t decide what to do with her hands because they were always there, hanging off the ends of her arms. And speaking of arms . . . where were they supposed to go? Maybe—

“If madame would follow me . . .”

The man was looking at her pointedly, gesturing for her to follow him through a metal detector. He held out a basket.

“What’s this for?”

He seemed surprised by the question. “It is for your . . . uh . . . metal items, madame.”

“I don’t have any . . .”

“Your knives, madame.” The man lowered his gaze and his voice. “You will need to leave your knives.”

“Ohhhhh. My knives!” Zoe said as if it had somehow slipped her mind that she was a dangerous spy who was always armed to the teeth. “I . . . uh . . . left them in the car. You know how it is. These pants don’t have very good pockets. Which is what’s wrong with pants. I’m more of an A-line dress kind of—”

“Okay, Alex,” Sawyer whispered in her ear and she stopped talking.

“No knives today! So should I just . . .” She motioned to the metal detector. “I’ll just hop on through—”

“No hopping,” Sawyer warned. “Do not—”

She hopped. She couldn’t help it.

The attendant looked surprised when not a single alarm was triggered, but he quickly collected himself and led her to another room. This one was larger, grander. But it still didn’t look like a bank. More like the lobby of a hotel where a sitting US senator would take an extremely high-end prostitute, or so Zoe thought as the greeter handed her off to a woman in a burgundy blazer.

“Welcome back, ma’am.” The woman had a crisp British accent and sounded like someone who had once worked at Buckingham Palace but left for this place because it was more exclusive. “Your number, please?” She slid a pen and piece of paper across the marble counter.

Zoe hadn’t been expecting that and, for a second, it threw her. She picked up the pen and started to write but it felt off somehow, like she was in a play and had missed her cue so she blurted out the line that no one was waiting for.

“I’d like to see my box. My safe-deposit box. Which I have in this establishment—”

“Easy,” Sawyer soothed. “You belong there and you’re doing great. Just take a deep breath.”

So that’s exactly what she did. Then she handed over the card and the paper and watched the woman examine both like she was checking Zoe’s answers on a pop quiz, and all Zoe could do was stand there, praying that she’d passed.

“We’ll just need to verify your identity.” The woman gave a smile but Zoe’s blood turned cold because the woman was reaching beneath the counter and pulling out a small metal box with a slightly curved indentation perfect for . . .

“Your finger, ma’am.” The woman only sounded a little bit impatient, and Zoe smiled like, Oh, this ol’ thing. I do this all the time and I know exactly what is happening and—

“Ow!” She jerked back and looked down at the tiny drop of blood beading on the end of her finger.

“So sorry, ma’am.” The woman chuckled. “I keep telling them we should use a less painful way to check your DNA but security is paramount.”

“I eat pain for breakfast,” Zoe said.

“You what?” Sawyer choked.

But the woman in the burgundy blazer simply smiled. The little box glowed green. And when a pair of elevator doors slid open the woman ushered Zoe inside. But as the doors closed, Sawyer’s voice faded from her ears and she was left with nothing but a bloody finger. And static.

Him

Sawyer should have relaxed. They wouldn’t have put her in the elevator if they hadn’t bought the ruse, but he couldn’t wrap his mind around how anyone could ever confuse Zoe and Alex. But, more importantly, how had he?

Alex was all sharp edges and straight lines. Zoe was softness and sweetness and sass. She was quirky comebacks and knowing winks. And yet there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Zoe was the more dangerous sister.

Because she made him hope.

She made him want.

She made him wonder if maybe there might be more to life than covers and legends and lies. Zoe made him long for something real. Maybe if they found the drive . . . Maybe if they took Kozlov off the board . . . Maybe if the powers that be would let him walk away . . . Then maybe . . .

He glanced down at his watch: eight minutes until closing.

The sun was down, and darkness had fallen over Zurich. Pedestrians cut across the park. Buses started and stopped on the busy street. But Sawyer stood perfectly still in the square, his gaze never leaving the doorway.

And that was his first mistake.