Page 71 of Run for Her Life
And then, there it was.
A weathered old cabin, half-swallowed by the surrounding trees, its wooden exterior scarred. The front porch sagged slightly, and the single yellow porch light flickered dimly, like it was struggling to survive.
She killed the engine and stepped out. The scent of pine and wet earth surrounded her.
Her boots crunched against the damp leaves. A flutter rose in her chest. Without thinking, she knocked at the front door.
A long pause.
The sound of locks shifting, bolts sliding open. The door cracked just enough for her to see him.
Jeff Gold.
His face was lined. His hair was silver-streaked, unevenly trimmed, as if he hadn’t cared enough to do it properly. There was stubble on his jaw, deep shadows under his eyes. He smelled like old books and whiskey, and he gripped a half-full glass in his hand.
Despite the wear and tear, his eyes were wide and alert. And they stared at her like he’d seen a ghost.
“Hello.” Zoe’s voice was hoarse. “I’m?—”
“Emily.”
She suddenly realized why the name had sounded so familiar. The floodgates in her mind opened. Memories of her mother yelling at her,Emily! Finish your banana!;a teacher at school,Well done, Emily; the kids at school playing with her,Want to play hide and seek, Emily?A cacophony of voices hurtling around her head at full speed and making her ears bleed.
She closed her eyes, trying to suppress the long-buried memories. A different name, a different person. The truth was right in front of her, hidden by layers of the years that had gone by. Why didn’t she remember? How could she have forgotten?
Her dreams hadn’t forgotten.
“How do you know?”
“You look exactly like your mother.” His voice was rough. His eyes glanced behind her in paranoia. “Come inside.”
The cabin was dark, save for the weak light filtering through the window. The fireplace was cold, the air inside tinged with stale whiskey and old paper. Books were everywhere. Not neatlyarranged—piles stacked on the floor, crammed onto shelves, scattered across the table. Some with faded covers, others with handwritten notes stuffed between pages.
She ran her fingers over one, brushing off a thin layer of dust. This was a man who had buried himself alive in books and whiskey, cut off from everything that had once tethered him to the world.
Jeff went through the elaborate process of locking the door. His robe swished behind him as he crossed the room to the window, peered outside, and drew the curtains shut. “Does anyone know you’re here?”
“No.” She frowned. “How did you know my mother?”
He set down his glass and rubbed his lips, deep in thought. “I was a federal prosecutor. Your mother and you went into witness protection. Connect the dots.”
“Who did my mother testify against?” she asked. The answer was in this room. The name of the man who killed Rachel. “What’s his name?”
WITSEC was a notoriously secretive program. Even as an FBI agent, Zoe had no access to court records. Since Rachel’s death was “natural,” her records were permanently sealed.
“You want to get straight to the point,” he said dryly. “How did you find me?”
“I asked you first.”
“It’s my house. My rules.” His face hardened. “How did you find me?”
Her heart thudded. “You sent me a riddle that was addressed to you. Even though you tried to hide your involvement.”
“Ah, I see. You’re sharper than I thought. Did you solve the case?”
“That’s not why I’m here.” She paused. “We’re working on it. Why did you send it to me?”
He sank into the armchair and raked his eyes over her. “You might not like what you find out, child.”
