Five Ways to Fall

I glance toward the exit door and then back at Ginger, torn between what she might have to say and getting to Charlie.

“I talked to some guy on her phone yesterday. She said he was her father but I’m not so sure.”

Chapter twenty

CHARLIE

Who the f**k is George Rourke?

This was supposed to be a fake ID. Fake! But the way Cain just went on, talking about these people I supposedly know, makes me believe that Charlie has a real life involving real people . . .

Charlie is a real person.

Apparently, up until four years ago, a person who probably laughed and cried and partied with her friends. People called her Charlie and she responded. She looked in a mirror and saw a face that was not my face, the one that has assumed her identity.

And then she disappeared without a trace? People don’t just disappear. I know, because I’m trying to. There’s only one explanation that makes sense.

Oh, God.

I’m forced to pull off the road. I barely get my seat belt off and the door open before my stomach’s contents spill out onto the pavement. Thank God it’s late and I’m on a quiet side street with no witnesses aside from the stray cat across the way, inspecting a trash bin. When I have nothing left to expel, I climb back into the driver’s seat. Tears begin to stream, but I wipe them away furiously.

I have to know.

With blood pounding through my ears like an incessant drum, I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It’s just after midnight. Sam will still be up. Despite his age, he’s a night owl and an early riser.

I know I shouldn’t do this. I’m never supposed to contact him, but I need him to convince me that my suspicions are wrong. I punch in the number of the Long Island house from the burner phone, hoping it can’t be traced if there’s a wiretap on the home phone.

With trembling hands and ragged breaths, I wait, my heart feeling like it’s going to give out soon if I don’t find some relief for it. I don’t even know if he’ll be home. He’s hardly ever home . . .

Sam answers on the third ring.

Forcing my fear aside with a hard swallow, I waste no time. “Who was Charlie?”

I hear nothing.

Nothing.

And then a click.

I force myself to breathe as I press the phone to my chest. Did he hear me? Did he think it was a prank call? Should I call back?

The ring that breaks into the silence makes me jump.

I hit “talk,” and listen, pursing my lips.

“Why are you asking?” His tone is low and harsh. Sam can be demanding, but I’ve heard him use this voice only once before—with Dominic that night. I’ll bet he switched phones. He’s probably also in the unfinished cellar. The room is completely bare, making it difficult to hide any bugs within, should someone ever manage to get past Simba and Duke—two of the largest and most unfriendly rottweilers I’ve ever seen.

I grit my teeth, searching for an excuse. In my frenzy, I didn’t consider how this conversation would go. I was simply looking for an answer to calm me. I can’t tell him what I know. I can’t tell him anything about Cain or his investigative practices. Stupid girl! What is happening to me? I’m always so vigilant. Now, when I most need to keep my head, I’m losing it!

But it’s too late. Sam needs an answer. I swallow my fear. “Was she a real person?”

His low, menacing chuckle makes me cringe. “Well, of course she’s real. She’s you.”

I shut my eyes as dread swirls. He’s being evasive. “Was she someone else before she was me?”

There’s a pause and then, to my surprise, Sam actually answers. “Yes.”

Prickles run down my neck. “Where is she now?”

“So many questions, my little mouse . . . I have to wonder why.” I hear the familiar pull of the chain affixed to the light in the cellar. On . . . off . . . on . . . off . . . and I think back to the day he handed me all of Charlie’s identification. The day he collected all of mine. What was he going to do with it? Sell it to someone else so she can pretend to be me?

I press my lips together to keep from speaking. I’ve never questioned Sam. Never. And now he gets a phone call from me in the middle of the night, riddled with unspoken accusations. It’s going to make him suspicious.

“Answer me!” he finally demands.

“I’m just wondering if she’s . . .” I force down the bile rising again in my throat. “What happened to her?” Did you kill her, Sam? Was it for me? Did you have this all planned out four years ago? Maybe earlier?

Of course I don’t expect Sam to admit to anything. He’s never shared anything incriminating with me. If I ever went to the cops, I’d have nothing but accusations and circumstantial evidence that wouldn’t hold up. Certainly no valuable information to barter for my exoneration. Aside from Dominic and now Jimmy, I’ve never met any of his associates. I rarely step foot inside his legitimate companies. I don’t know how he gets the heroin; I would never ask. I know he’s made a few trips to the Middle East over the last few years on “business.” But I highly doubt his real estate firm, his roofing company, his franchise steakhouse, or any of the other dozen ventures he’s involved in has anything to do with the Middle East.

I’m sure the DEA would question his trips as well, if they were watching. I’ve never felt their presence, though. Then again, I don’t know what having the DEA’s attention would feel like. For all I know, that guy sniffing around me last spring wasn’t Sam’s friend and was in fact the DEA. Either they’re discreet or they haven’t caught on to Sam yet. I guess when you’re really good at what you do, it’s harder to pin things on you.

I hear the hiss of air through Sam’s teeth on the other end before he offers in a phony nonchalant tone, “Who knows? Maybe she betrayed someone who gave her everything. Maybe she wasn’t a good little mouse.”

My heart begins to race, pounding against my rib cage. He evaded the question but to me, it’s clearly an answer.

And a warning.

“Is that what you wanted to know?”

Clearing my throat, I manage to get out, “Yes.”

“I hope I don’t have anything to worry about. Remember, we’re in this together. There’s no room to get sloppy. Yesterday, you were sloppy.”

Sloppy. The same thing he accused Dominic of being.

“I know, S—” The coppery taste of blood taints my taste buds as I bite my tongue hard, to avoid saying his name. “It won’t happen again.”

“Good. Because we have a really good thing going. And it’s going to get much better.” There’s a pause. “I see you’re running low on money. I’ll deposit another ten in your account tomorrow. Go buy yourself something nice.”

“I will. Thank you.” Money . . . It all comes down to money. How Sam values that over everything else and how he assumes everyone else does, too. The funny thing is, Sam could deposit ten times that much into my account without feeling it financially. But he never gives me too much. Just enough to keep me around, needing him.

I listen to the static on the phone for I don’t know how long after Sam hangs up. Finally, I sink back into my seat.

Charlie Rourke was a real person.

And the real Charlie Rourke is dead.

I’ve been obliviously pretending to be a dead girl for months now. I’ve turned her into a stripper and a drug trafficker. I’ve looked forward to the day I can shred her ID up into little bits and pretend that she never existed.