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“What’s all this?” I ask, pouring coffee from the pot he’s already made.
“Your future.” He holds up a printout. “Intercepted this an hour ago. They’re looking for a brunette federal prosecutor, 5’4,late twenties.” He sets down a box of hair dye beside the identity documents. “Time to become someone else.”
I stare at the box of hair dye, dark brown, almost black.Identity stripped down to something you can buy in aisle six. I used to prosecute men for this kind of erasure.
“You want to dye my hair?”
“It’s not what I want,” Cole says. “It’s what we need to do.”
He slides a document toward me. It’s an FBI communication about two witnesses from my case. Police found both witnesses dead in their homes yesterday.
“Under federal protection?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Doesn’t matter,” Cole says. “Alessio has people inside. Three safe houses compromised in the last week. He’s getting desperate. He’s put out ‘find and detain’ orders to every corrupt official on their payroll.”
I set my mug down carefully, afraid my shaking hands might spill it. “And there are a lot of them?” My legal mind automatically calculates the implications. If three safe houses have been compromised, that requires multiple sources, coordination, maybe even someone at the director level.
“More than you realized.” He spreads out several identity documents, passports, driver’s licenses, credit cards. “Standard witness protection won’t work against their connections.”
The documents bear my photograph but different names. Different lives. I pick one up, feeling its weight, surprisingly heavy for something so thin.
“Isabella Gallo,” I read aloud. “Art dealer from Chicago.”
“Your most developed cover.” Cole stands, moving behind me. “You need to prepare for the possibility that Molly Morrone may never surface again.”
“I’ve spent my life upholding the law,” I whisper, “and now I’m about to become someone who exists outside of it.”
Cole’s hands rest on my shoulders, unexpectedly gentle.
“Documents are just paper. Your body tells the actual story.” He shifts his posture, relaxing his shoulders. “You walk like you’re ready to cross-examine hostile witnesses. Isabella would move differently. Softer. Always looking for something beautiful to buy.”
His hands slide down my arms, adjusting my posture. “You stand like a prosecutor, spine straight, shoulders squared, ready to face a jury.” He presses lightly at the small of my back. “Isabella is fluid, artistic. She moves with confidence but not rigidity.”
Cole steps back, studying me. “The posture is good, but we need more than body language.” He moves to the counter where the hair dye sits waiting. “Twenty minutes to process. Perfect timing for the next lesson.”
“You really know how to do this?” I ask as he positions a chair in front of the bathroom mirror.
“I’ve changed appearances before.” His fingers test my hair length as he works the dye through my strands. “Ready to let the prosecutor go?”
I meet his eyes in the mirror. “She wouldn’t survive what’s coming.”
“No,” he agrees, massaging the color through my hair. “But you will.”
A week ago, I would never have imagined sitting in a remote cabin while a dangerous man dyes my hair. He guides me back to the living room, his hands still damp from washing them.
“While we wait, let’s work on who you’re becoming.”
I try to adjust, hyperaware of how my body betrays my training. Cole continues the lesson, demonstrating subtle changes in body language. His touch lingers longer with each correction. His breathing deepens. The lesson becomes something else entirely as his hands frame my waist.
“The first rule of assuming a new identity,” he says, his breath warm against my ear, “is understanding who you truly are beneath all the layers. What you want. What you fear.”
I turn to face him, our bodies inches apart. “And how do I do that?”
His timer goes off in the bathroom. “Time to rinse,” he says, stepping back with obvious reluctance.
Twenty minutes later, Cole rinses the dark dye from my hair. The water runs brown, washing away the last traces of who I used to be. The woman in the mirror has darker hair, which makes my eyes look more intense. Different. Dangerous.
Something darkens in his eyes. “There’s another aspect to identity, control and surrender.” He walks to a cabinet I’ve never seen him open before, unlocking it with a key from his pocket. “When you give up control, you can become someone new, someone free from the constraints of who you were.”
