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It’s Rebecca and Nathan who are here tonight, not us. And right now, it feels good to be Rebecca and Nathan. My world won’t collapse if I admit that much. And so, just playing the part, I lean into his warm chest, and he rubs my back gently before settling his arm around me.

But as dinner continues in a pleasant murmur around us and I sink into the ease and comfort of being like this, of feeling his fingers absentmindedly stroking my arm, the pretense slips away.

We’ve been in this together about two weeks, a near-constant adrenaline rush with alternating horrors and thrills. But this is new. This is the first time I’ve really felt peaceful. Content. Supported.

And it makes me realize that what I have here—what Ireallyhave, under the lies and the aliases, even under the stupid feelings—is a friend.

I don’t know whether that thought warms or breaks my heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Leave it to Martin to ruin everything.

With murder o’clock drawing nearer, Grant and I approached him after dinner in hopes he’d invite us to the final stages of his plan. Maybe a celebratory nightcap and strangulation on the empty patio, or a nice garroting in the bike barn. But no, he offered us a quick congratulations and excused himself for a dip in the hot tub.

So now we have to go for a dip in the hot tub.

Funny how the prospect of being in close quarters with Grant, significantly less clothed than usual, can turn me right back into a panicky wreck. While he changes in our bathroom, I’m debating whether he’d think it’s weird if I wore a big T-shirt in the hot tub like a sunburned kid at the beach. Or a sweater. Maybe I could convince him to do the same.

As if the gods of forced proximity are finally cutting me a break, my phone rings. I jump for it and speed toward the door.

“I have to take this,” I call to Grant. “I’ll go keep eyes on Martin.”

I duck into the hall, giving myself just a moment to exhale before answering the phone.

“Hey,” I say, plodding down the hall.

“Hi, hi, hi,” says Steph. It’s so good to hear her voice. “I only have a minute, but I wanted to announce thatHalf-Bakedis our next Anna Matthews book, because I just found a copy in the Little Free Library outside the hospital.”

Book club. Right. Lately it’s a little hard to believe that I used to just read these things for fun and then go about my business without completely unraveling.

A thought stops me short at the patio door. “Did you see Anna’s Instagram post?”

“Nope,” she says. “You know my rule: no following people I don’t know in real life. Too big a time suck. Why, is she working on something new?”

I suddenly feel overwhelmed with bitterness. It’s bad enough that all this is happening to me. It’s worse that I can’t tell my best friend about it. Not unless I want to be gently lectured on the benefits of antipsychotics, anyway.

“We’ll see,” I say, trying to sound like I’m not gritting my teeth. “Anyway,Half-Baked. Sounds good. I’ll pick it up when I get back.”

“Back? You didn’t tell me about this one! Where are you now, hang gliding in the outback? Drag racing in South Africa?”

“Close,” I say, stepping out into the night. The air is cool and sprinkled with the singing of crickets and the wind in the trees. A long walkway winds through dormant rosebushes and boxwood shrubs, and there at the end of it, climbing into a glowing hot tub, is Martin. He’s out of earshot and facing away, but I duck behind a planter and lower my voice anyway. “I’m just outside of London,” I say. “For a … work trip.”

“Work trip? Since when do temps travel for work? Unless …” She gasps. “Did you finally take that job at the gym?”

“No,” I say, a thread of irritation bristling in me. “And since when do self-defense instructors travel for work?”

“I don’t know! You’re the expert. I just want to know why the hell you won’t accept a job that’s literallysoperfect for you.”

Not this again. “Because!” The word blares out of me like a trumpet blast, and I steal a look at Martin to make sure he didn’t hear. He’s in a trancelike state of relaxation, swaying as if to music only he can hear. “I’m too busy.”

“Mm-hmm,” Steph says.

“And teaching isn’t my thing.”

“Right.”

“And the studio’s really far from my apartment.”