Any chance she’s a rapist?
I look over her slim body, her puny stature, and wonder. After all, looks are deceiving where I’m concerned. Same could be true for her.
I’ve officially lost my damn mind.
“My father was friends with numerous janitors. He called them butlers. Sorry I didn’t want to tell my boyfriend that I was a rich brat from a privileged household who concentrated too much on bad things before I almost died. I had a wakeup call. As for withholding all this from him… Logan and I have only recently started dating. Vomiting my past into his lap is never a good way to start a relationship. And going psycho crazy jealous and invasively tearing into his girlfriend’s past is no way to steal him away. Now kindly fuck off.”
“And if I show this to Logan?” she threatens.
“Then I guess I’ll show him all the plastic surgeon reports and things done. Then I’ll end things with him if he makes me feel as violated as you have.”
I slam the door in her face, ignoring the trembling in my hand as I lean against the door. Fuckity fuck.
My past is solid. Jake has made sure of it. Kennedy Carlyle’s records have all been adjusted to match me. Her scars. Her injuries. Her blood type. Her fucking DNA. He’s covered every single trail there is.
I am Kennedy Carlyle.
Well, actually I’m Lana Myers.
Victoria Evans and Kennedy both died, and Lana was born.
It’s a wonder I don’t have an identity crisis.
As soon as I grab my phone, I turn it back on and dial Jake back.
“What the hell?” he barks. “Why’d you hang up and turn your phone off?!”
“Find out every dark detail on a girl named Hadley Grace.”
“What? Why?”
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for his inevitable rant. “Because she just became a problem.”
Chapter 2
The superior man is aware of righteousness; the inferior man is aware of advantage.
—Confucius
LOGAN
“Where the fuck is Hadley? She should already be leading the forensics investigation by now,” I snap, looking over at Elise.
“I’ve called her several times. She just sent a text saying she’s on her way.”
I run a weary hand through my hair as they finally get the poor woman’s body pulled back inside.
That bastard is here.
He’s taunting me.
He’s calling me out.
He put my name on a dead woman’s body, as if stating it was all my fault he was here.
“I want every surveillance camera footage for a five-block radius. I want to know where he came from and where he went!” I bark at Elise, and she nods before running off to do as ordered.
I’ve never been so pissed. In the seven years I’ve been working for the FBI, I’ve never been called out. I’ve never had a serial killer go so far as to carve a personalized message on the chest of a woman.