Page 57 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold
What King actually needed were answers. Someone was after King and Alex, and neither of them would be safe until he figured out who. And why.
“Just answer me this...” When she appeared in the outdoor shower, she didn’t even glance at his body—not even a subtle peek—and King tried not to feel so disappointed. “How are you not freaking out right now? Because, if you haven’t noticed, we’re going to have to find a new way over that mountain.”
“Wehavea way over the mountain,” he stated simply.
“And there are a few tons of volcanic rock blocking that way, so...” Alex trailed off when he smiled. “What?” She sounded almost scared. “What are you—”
“This isn’t the only place we’ve ever broken into, you know?”
At first, she looked confused. Then concerned. Then... intrigued. He knew the moment she remembered—
“Michael Kingsley, are you suggesting that we do it like Amalfi?”
“No.” King didn’t even hesitate, he just inched closer. He was staring right into her eyes when he said, “I’m saying we do itexactlylike Amalfi.”
Chapter Thirty
Seven Years Ago
Amalfi Coast, Italy
Alex
Alex didn’t see King for a year, so she died her hair a deep, dark red because it was the boldest color she could think of—guaranteed to make her stand out in ways a good spy never would. She told herself she was doing it to spite him, but, the truth was, Zoe had a book deal. Her twin was going to be a published author, with her picture on the back cover of (hopefully) a million novels. She’d be going on tours and doing interviews, and they needed to look as unidentical as possible from that point forward, so Alex experimented with center parts and lip injectors.
She did a stint undercover in Quebec and brushed up on her French, then started perfecting her Russian. But, mostly, she tried to stay busy.
She took up knitting.
She gave up knitting.
She got really good at shoving knitting needles into the necks of sparring dummies.
She reread all of her sister’s favorite novels and had dreams about telling some mystery man the plots of every one while she sat on kitchen counters she’d never have and he made food she’d never eat.
She imagined laughing.
But that just made her cry.
And she didn’t think about Michael Kingsley every hour.
It was merely every day.
***
When the letter showed up in her mailbox, Alex didn’t bother asking how it had reached her. The Agency knew all her safe houses, but the thin envelope didn’t look like it came from Langley. There was no name. No address. No stamp. Just a one-way ticket to Italy and a note that said:See you soon.
So by the time Alex found herself standing on a crowded pier, looking out over the Mediterranean’s choppy waters, it was almost a relief to turn up the collar of her coat and say, “Hello, Merritt.”
A ferry was making its way toward them, churning along, full of tourists and commuters and people in love. Alex found herself uncharacteristically annoyed by the thought of it.
“Hello, darling. Come give an old woman a hug.”
For the first time since she’d known her, Margaret Merritt looked her age. Alex didn’t like the way Merritt walked up the ramp to the ferry, hunched over in a way that had nothing to do with the chill. Her skin was a little too pale and her eyes had lost that touch of sparkle. Maybe it was a cover. A ploy. Or maybe time catches up with everyone eventually, even people who have lived their whole lives hiding in plain sight.
When they finally made it on board, Merritt looked Alex up and down and told her, “You look tired.” She wasn’t being rude—that wasn’t in Merritt’s nature. Things like fatigue simply mattered in their world. People needed to be quick—sharp.On it.And Alex hadn’t slept well in a year. Since the bungalow and the breeze and the deep breaths on the other side of the bed.
“Thank you for coming.” Merritt made room on a bench as the rest of the seats filled up on the ferry.
