My throat constricted. I had to swallow. No, I couldn't swallow. It would give me away. Just lie perfectly still--
I had to swallow. I couldn't breathe. Oh God, I couldn't--
Something brushed my cheek. The touch was so light that it took a moment for my brain to register the feeling. Not warm skin. Not cool fabric. Cold metal.
My bladder convulsed once more.
Oh God, oh God. I had to do something. Now. Before--
A metallic click, right over my ear. I leapt up, limbs flailing. He stumbled back. Metal flashed in his hand. I swung at it, with my free fist. I hit his arm and his fingers flew open, the knife falling to the bed.
Not a knife. Scissors. A lock of my hair still jammed between the blades.
I grabbed for it, but he was faster, whacking the scissors with his open palm and sending them sailing onto the floor.
I lunged and the cord around my wrist tightened so fast it wrenched my shoulder. I spun, scrabbling back up the bed and clawing at the cord. But when it tightened, the knot tightened, too, and I couldn't slide it back, couldn't loosen it.
"Don't do that," he said. "You're only going to hurt yourself, Eden."
The hairs on my back rose, like a cat's. A flash of rage, white-hot. It evaporated as fast as it formed, leaving my heart pounding, throat constricting again.
He did recognize me.
That's what this is about. Who I am. Who my parents are. He's going to--
"Eden?"
I inched up to the headboard, turned and crouched there, my free hand still working at the knot. He stood with the scissors in his hand. When my gaze shot there, he lowered them. The hair was gone now. Fallen free, I thought, then I saw it behind him, on the dresser top, one pale curl carefully laid out.
I looked at him again. Yes, it was the desk clerk, but not the way I'd remembered him when I'd been lying in bed. Not a greasy slimeball. His hair was clean. His face was clean. His clothing was clean. I could say he'd washed up, but I realized this was how he'd looked in the office when he checked me in. I'd just misremembered. Reimagined him the way I'd picture a guy who'd sneak into a woman's hotel room to rape her.
I knew that predators came in every form, but I couldn't help staring at him. He looked too ordinary, too quiet, too well mannered.
A man that a single woman wouldn't mind sitting next to on a crowded train.
A man like Todd Larsen.
"My--my name isn't--"
"Eden Tiffany Larsen. A pretty name for a pretty girl."
"No, my name is--"
"I know what they call you now. Olivia. It doesn't suit you at all. You should go back to using your real name. Your proper one. Eden."
He pulled the chair alongside the bed until it bumped the nightstand. Then he sat and inched it forward, getting closer still. I kept working at the cord. He glanced over, frowning, but said nothing to stop me, just laid the scissors on his lap.
"For twenty years, people have been looking for you. Some said they'd hidden you too well. But the believers never gave up hope."
"I don't have anything to do with Pamela and Todd Larsen. They're my birth parents. That's it. I don't remember them. I'm sure they barely remember me. If you're going to use me for revenge--"
"Revenge?" He laughed. "We don't want revenge. We want to honor them."
"Honor?"
"What your parents did..." He shuddered. It wasn't the kind of shudder most people would give thinking about what the Larsens did. It wasn't the kind of shudder anyone should give thinking about it.
"They made a statement," he said. "An incredible statement."