
Contents

Also by Michelle D. Argyle

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

What Comes Next?

Bonus Chapters of The Breakaway

About the Author

CATCH

Michelle D. Argyle

# Also By Michelle D. Argyle

The Breakaway

Pieces (The Breakaway #2)

Unbroken (The Breakaway #3)

Out of Tune

If I Forget You

Streets of Glass

Monarch

Bonded

True Colors & Other Short Stories

Catch / Second Edition

Copyright © 2018 Michelle D. Argyle

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, printing, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Summary: "Eighteen-year-old Miranda falls in love with a purse snatcher in Las Vegas while vacationing with her family."

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Edited by Diane Dalton

Cover design and formatting by Melissa Williams Design

# 1.

Miranda's parents had gone overboard in planning this last family vacation before she went off to college. The next five days were packed to the brim with activities organized around her father's business convention. She should have been excited, but it all felt so inevitably predictable. Just like her life. As much as she sometimes wished for something unplanned and exciting to happen, she knew it was a reckless hunger. She had once told her fifteen-year-old sister, Julia, "If you look for excitement, you'll probably find trouble."

But maybe a little trouble would be worth it.

"Okay, girls." Miranda's mother, Gabriela, flung a suitcase onto one of the hotel beds and unzipped the top. "I've brought something for you two to do while we're here."

"Like there's not enough entertainment in Vegas already?" Julia asked as she sank into a chair by the window and dropped her sunglasses on the table. She looked the most like their mother, with darker skin and full, curly black hair inherited from Gabriela's Brazilian genes. Those genes had skipped Miranda entirely. She looked most like her father, with fair skin and straight, light brown hair. The most exotic things about her were her long, black eyelashes, full lips, and bushy eyebrows she had to pluck nearly every day.

"Of course there's enough entertainment," their mother replied with a small pout, "but this is . . . this is different." She pulled a small white box from her bag and slid off the top. "You two got to know Grandpa pretty well before he died, but he never talked much about your Grammy. I want you two to get to know her better."

"Here we go," Julia groaned as she slowly fist-pumped the air. "Another march into the Brazilian roots!"

Miranda smirked and looked out the window at the city sprawling below. They were on the sixth floor of the Las Vegas Hilton, and she was only now beginning to cool off from the dry July heat outside as the air conditioner blasted cold air up her sweat-damp shirt.

"These are the pictures we saved?" Julia asked as she jumped onto the bed and peered into the white box. Miranda watched them over her shoulder, remembering how devastated their mother had been when that stupid flood destroyed the few boxes of memorabilia they had of Grandma and Grandpa Soares. They had managed to save one box with a few pictures and some knickknacks, but Miranda hadn't paid much attention to them at the time. She was too busy mourning the loss of her baby scrapbook, which was now a water-warped mess.

"Yes, these are from her first trip to Vegas. It was 1967—when Elvis married Priscilla at The Aladdin, and Howard Hughes started buying hotels, to give you some sense of the time period."

"Who was Howard Hughes?" Julia asked, snapping her watermelon gum.

Miranda laughed. "Leonardo Dicaprio?" she hinted. "That movie The Aviator? Howard Hughes was one of the richest men in the world, ever."

Julia shook her head. "No clue who you're talking about."

"Well, it doesn't matter," Gabriela sighed as she lifted old photographs from the box. "What matters is that you two get to know your Grammy through these pictures."

Walking to the bed, Miranda picked up one of the pictures and studied it. Her Grandma Soares had the same dark coloring as Julia. In the black and white photograph, she was wearing an old-fashioned dress with big shiny buttons going all the way up the front. She leaned against a light-colored Chevy, her face half covered with a huge pair of white sunglasses. On her head was a floppy sunhat.

Miranda smiled. "Looks like she walked straight out of Hollywood."

"Well, we don't live far from there, now do we?" Gabriela laughed. Miranda's parents had lived in Santa Ana forever, even before they'd met and married . . . and Miranda feared she would live there forever too. That was why she had been so desperate to go to college somewhere other than California. She'd always had an itch to travel and move around. She didn't like the idea of being stuck in one place for the rest of her life. Being stuck meant even less excitement than she already had.

"How old was she in these?" Julia asked as she thumbed through a stack of photos.

"Eighteen—your age, Miranda. She and her older sister, Veronica, came here to Vegas for the very first time."

Miranda picked up a few more pictures. Some of them were in color, but most of them were black and white. Gabriela sifted through the pictures until she found a neat stack held together with a rubber band. She pulled off the band and handed Miranda the photos. There were at least a dozen snapshots of the two sisters in front of buildings—The Flamingo Hotel, The Riviera, The Aladdin, Caesars Palace, and a bunch of others Miranda had never heard of. Half of them probably weren't even around anymore. Her grandmother looked so happy and excited, and in every shot she had an arm wrapped around her sister's waist, hugging her close. In a lot of ways, they looked similar to her and Julia.

"I thought you two could go to each of those locations—if they still exist—and take a photo just like your grandmother and great aunt did. Create some memories, and then we can put them all together in an album." Gabriela's eyes sparkled as she looked up at Miranda. "It'll be an adventure." She moved her attention to Julia. "I know this trip wasn't something you really wanted to do, but humor me for this? Please?"

Miranda saw the desperation in her mother's eyes, and it hit her in the gut. All those hours Gabriela spent learning Portuguese, all that time in the kitchen trying to learn Brazilian cooking, it all had to do with connecting to her mother in the only way she knew how. For the first time in her life, Miranda felt a small spark of motivation to help her find that connection.

"Sure, Mom," she said, putting her hand on her mother's. "We'll go out and take the pictures." She grabbed all the photos and stacked them into a nice, thick pile and stretched the rubber band around them.

"Thanks, girls. I'll be at your dad's convention tomorrow. You can go first thing in the morning after breakfast. I know you'll have fun."

Julia rolled her eyes and slid off the bed. "Sounds like a blast," she sighed as Miranda dropped the photos in her handbag for later. "Better than the convention, at least."

♠

"Well, it doesn't look anything like it did in 1967," Julia said as she and Miranda stood below the gaudy Flamingo Hotel and Casino sign. It hung over the sidewalk, bright pink and orange and in the shape of flamingo feathers. In Grammy's picture, the sign wasn't attached to the building but still had the same basic shape. Miranda couldn't tell what the colors had been back then since the photo was in black and white. She wasn't even sure the hotel had been in the same place. She squinted at the picture and then up at the sign above them. People bustled around them, sweating under the hot sun. Julia wiped her brow. "Maybe we should go inside. I'm so tired I'm going to fall over."

"Hang in there, Jules. We only have Caesar's Palace and Planet Hollywood left," Miranda said, turning around. "Caesar's is, like, right across the street." She pointed in the direction of a white pedestrian bridge stretching across the busy road. "See? Then we can take a break before we head down to Planet Hollywood."

"That one's not in any of the pictures," Julia complained.

"It used to be The Aladdin, remember?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Then after that we'll go back to our hotel and sleep for the rest of the day if you want."

Julia heaved a sigh and started turning in circles to find someone who might be willing to take the picture for them. They had done this five times now, and Miranda's feet hurt so badly she thought they might fall off. They had to finish this. They had to give her mom these pictures. She wasn't sure why it was such a deep need for her now, but as she and Julia had trekked down the Strip and looked at the pictures of Grammy and her sister, trying to pose in the exact same positions for their own pictures, she had felt a strong connection to her grandmother. She had been a real person, just like her, in a city that must have been exciting and wild and fun. Had she fought with her own sister like Miranda fought with Julia sometimes? Had she loved her just as much? Had she ever been angry with her parents for leaving Brazil? She hadn't ever gone back, so she must not have minded too much.

"Thanks!" Julia said in an upbeat voice as she handed their camera over to a middle-aged woman in a pair of yoga pants and sneakers. Miranda could tell Julia was forcing her excitement.

"So, you want the big sign in it, then?"

"Yeah, if you can," Miranda answered as the woman positioned the camera in front of her eye.

"I'll have to step way back," she said. "Just wait there." The woman backed up until she was practically in the side street, then angled the camera up and adjusted the lens until it was at the widest angle possible. "Smile!" she yelled out.

Miranda hugged Julia close to her, squeezing and smiling until the woman was finished. Miranda thanked her and waited until she'd walked off before looking at the picture. The sign was a little cut off, but that didn't matter so much since the original sign in the picture was completely different anyway.

"I look so fat next to you," Julia grumbled as she peered at the pictures while Miranda scrolled through them.

"Oh, you do not. Shut up."

"Yes, I _do._ I'm short and chubby and you're tall and thin."

Miranda nudged her in the ribs, realizing how much she'd miss her at college. "You do realize I've always thought you're the prettier one, right?"

Julia's mouth fell open. "No."

"It's true! You're gorgeous, just like Mom."

Julia looked herself up and down. "Whatever."

"Believe it, sis." Miranda swung her handbag off her shoulder to put the camera back inside it. Once it was between her wallet and her iPod, she carefully tucked the thick stack of pictures at the bottom beneath a package of Kleenex.

"I'm hungry," Julia said as they turned toward the bridge.

Miranda looked at her watch. It was almost three o'clock. They'd been walking around all morning and afternoon without stopping to eat. Their breakfast back at the Hilton seemed like five million years ago.

"Yeah," Miranda answered, "we can eat somewhere." She moved to push the strap of her bag back up on her shoulder, but something tugged at it so hard she almost fell on her butt. She felt the strap yank away from her fingers, and spun toward Julia.

"What are you _doing_?" she growled, and then realized it wasn't Julia who had grabbed her bag, but someone else entirely. When she looked up, she saw a guy sprinting down the sidewalk. He was dressed in a suit. Short brown hair and white sneakers. Who wore white sneakers with a suit? What she noticed most of all, however, was her red leather hobo handbag dangling from his hand. A string of curse words left her mouth, and without thinking, she started running down the sidewalk after him.

"Miranda!" Julia called out from behind her. "Miranda! Stop!"

Miranda spun around. "Just stay put. I'll be _right_ back."

Julia looked stunned as Miranda turned back around and took off down the sidewalk. The guy wasn't that far ahead. She could totally catch him. What could possibly happen? He wouldn't hurt her on a public street surrounded by witnesses. She would catch him and get her purse back. Simple.

"Thief!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, pointing at the guy. "Someone stop him! He stole my purse!"

People stared at her and then down the sidewalk at the guy. Nobody made a move to stop him. Her feet pounded the sidewalk and she dodged people left and right. She could still see him. Ahead of him was a little red brick partition separating the sidewalk from a very busy intersection. He would have to turn the corner and she might lose him. She ran harder . . . then almost stopped in shock as he leapt over the fence right into the busy street. It was an intersection with no crosswalk, and as he darted between cars, horns honking left and right, Miranda wondered if she should follow him. She was nearing the partition. It was now or never. She came to a complete stop, looking across the road as traffic paused at a red light. She scrambled up and over the partition, careful not to catch her clothes. The light was still red, and she ran past the stopped cars to the other side where there was a short stone fence. She leaped over that one and caught sight of the guy still running at a dead sprint. She felt like her lungs might explode as she tried to catch up to him.

As she ran, her mind skipped over the contents of her purse and the things she was in danger of losing. Her mother's expensive SLR camera. That was replaceable, although the pictures of her and Julia would be a pain to replace. Her wallet with a debit card, her driver's license, her and Julia's five-day monorail passes to get back to the hotel, and about two hundred dollars in cash. All of that was frightening to lose, but replaceable too. Her iPod. That was replaceable. Her key to the hotel. Was that a big deal? Her cell phone. That was replaceable, but a pain in the butt to lose. It wasn't password protected, but she had safeguarded it when she'd bought it so she could lock it from online if it was ever lost or stolen.

But there were the pictures, and those weren't replaceable. She imagined the disappointed look on her mother's face. She had to get them back. She ran even harder. Up ahead, she caught sight of the Eiffel Tower replica looming over Paris Las Vegas, its tall spire backed by a sea of blue sky. When she looked back down, the guy was gone.

Gone.

She swore under her breath and stopped running. She was in front Bally's—a tall, skinny building stretching up, up, up. A long row of white columns were set in a half-circle along the concourse where she stood. Up ahead was another stairway with escalators leading to a pedestrian bridge across the road. Had he gone up there?

Running forward, she peered up at the escalators. No men in suits. Then, along the bridge, she caught sight of a head of brown hair moving quickly. It was difficult to see much of anything with the white railings in the way. She had to take the chance. She leaped onto the escalator, running up two stairs at a time until she was at the top and could look out across the bridge. She couldn't see him, but the bridge led into a covered area inside the Bellagio, probably filled with shops and restaurants. He could hide anywhere in there.

With a heavy sigh, she felt her shoulders droop. She hadn't been fast enough. Everything was gone. She was going to have to call the bank and cancel her card, lock her phone, explain to her mother what had happened. Buy a new purse. She'd spent over a hundred dollars on that thing just a few months ago.

Then she remembered that she'd left Julia all alone down at The Flamingo. Julia wasn't helpless, but that didn't make it right. She rushed down the escalator again and rounded the corner to head back to The Flamingo. Well, she had just been thinking about how she wanted more excitement in her life. She supposed it had finally happened—for a moment, anyway.

"Miranda!"

Miranda let out a sigh of relief as Julia ran toward her. "Sorry I ran off," she apologized as Julia stopped in front of her and put her hands on her hips, irritated.

"I thought I was going to find you shot on the sidewalk," Julia growled. "What were you thinking?"

Miranda shrugged and wiped her palm across her forehead. She was sweating so much it felt like she'd just walked under a waterfall. "I didn't want to lose Mom's pictures," she answered. "I figured he couldn't hurt me in public if I caught up with him, but he was too damn fast. I think he went inside the Bellagio."

Julia looked across the congested street split down the middle with a median of palm trees. The tall, curved hotel stood majestically behind an expansive turquoise pool. "Yeah, that place is like a small town," Julia moaned. "There's no way."

"I know, so just forget it. My purse is gone and we have to tell Mom and Dad. You brought your phone, I hope."

Julia slipped it out of her back pocket. "Right here. I guess I was smart not to bring a purse."

"Do you have any money?"

"Not very much." She pulled out a five-dollar bill, three ones, and some change. Miranda stared at the bills, disappointed. It was probably enough to get a cab back to the hotel, but if they could make sure their mother would come and get them, they could buy something to eat while they waited. If they had to, they could walk the few miles back to their hotel after that.

"Let's get some food and call Mom."

"Where?"

Miranda looked up at the bridge. "I was about to say we should go into the Bellagio to eat, but I'll bet all those restaurants cost a fortune."

"You probably need reservations."

Miranda nodded. "We'll go in after lunch, though . . . just to look around."

"I thought you said forget about it!" Julia said, rolling her eyes.

Miranda grabbed her hand and pulled her up the street toward the Eiffel Tower replica. "There should be somewhere to eat up here."

♠

Once they were seated outside with the Bellagio right across the street, they talked the waiter into letting them order from the kids menu. They shared a cheeseburger and fries, or, as the French menu called it, _Cheeseburger and Frites._ Miranda picked at her fries and kept staring at the hotel.

"Forget it already!" Julia said as she took a huge bite of her half of the cheeseburger.

"I know, I know." Miranda turned back to her food and tried to enjoy it. She had already called her bank. She'd also called her mother, who was on her way to pick them up. The plan was to stop by the Las Vegas Police Department down the road to report the theft. That left a small chance that the guy might be caught.

"I feel like such an idiot," Miranda muttered as she sipped her water. "You know, they always tell you to be careful with your purse, especially when you're a tourist. I probably shouldn't have even brought it."

Julia sighed. She shoved a fry into her mouth and looked at her phone, typing something before setting it back down with a desperate, sad look on her face. She was probably texting her boyfriend.

Miranda wadded up the straw wrapper by her plate and threw it at Julia's forehead. It hit her right between the eyes. "Do you even want to be here on this trip?" she asked.

Julia threw her a genuine glare and rolled her eyes. "Dad didn't have to bring all of us. It's totally your fault we're all here."

"Don't blame me __ if you'd rather be home making out with Gavin Hall whenever Mom and Dad aren't looking. I've told you before, Jules. If you're not careful, you're going to get yourself in trouble, and I won't be around to help you."

"What kind of trouble?"

Miranda huffed and held out a finger. "One: if you go too far, you could end up pregnant. If that happened, I'm not sure Mom would ever get over it." She held up a second finger. "Two: all any guy wants is one thing. Take a big, fat, wild guess what _that_ is. Once you give it to him and he gets tired of you, he'll split and leave you with a broken heart, even if you do end up pregnant. All men are the same."

"Oh, what _ever._ Just because you've had bad experiences doesn't mean Gavin will turn out the same."

Miranda squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. Julia was wrong. Every guy Miranda had ever dated had turned out to be a sex-crazed, self-centered jerk. Luke had left her when she'd refused to go past second base with him. Ryder stuck around for a while, but then she'd found out it was only because he was cheating behind her back with Amber Mitchell. "I had to get some action somewhere!" had been his excuse. _Please._ She had made out with him constantly. It wasn't like she was a complete prude. Then there was Christian. She didn't even want to think about Christian.

"That's not how Dad is," Julia said.

"Of course not, but he's . . . well, Mom was lucky."

"Well, maybe I'm lucky too. Gavin is not like the losers you date. You just watch and see."

Miranda held her breath as she realized that once she was in college she wouldn't be able to watch much of anything that went on with Julia. Fifteen was such a tricky age, and she wouldn't be there to help her sister with any of it. She would hear news about her from their parents, talk to her on the phone or maybe video chat sometimes—if time allowed. That thought made Miranda sad. She had chosen to attend a university clear across the country in North Carolina. Her parents had a decent income, but they probably wouldn't be up to flying her home all the time. She'd never thought about how much she might miss of her family's lives. She had been too worried about scholarships and dorm life and class schedules.

After polishing off her share of the fries, Miranda started on her half of the cheeseburger. She hated eating things together. One thing at a time was the only way to go. Julia, on the other hand, was the opposite. She would shove two fries into her mouth and chew for a minute then take a bite of cheeseburger before she had even swallowed. She wasn't picky about a lot of things, even her boyfriend, Gavin, who had greasy black hair and big, clownish ears. But he was kind and thoughtful, so maybe since Julia wasn't so picky about looks, she was more likely to find somebody worth finding. Maybe Miranda had stepped on too many cracks, walked under too many ladders, and shattered too many mirrors. Bad luck seemed to follow her like a plague, especially when it came to men. Or was it because she was too picky? And if so, was that something she should change?

"Since you're not going to forget about your purse," Julia said as she picked up the last of the crumbs from the fries, "what would happen if you called your phone?"

Miranda froze for a moment. The sweat on her body had long since cooled beneath the shade of the table umbrella. She was almost getting cold now that she had eaten and wasn't moving. "You think he'd answer?" she asked in a trembling voice.

The suggestion seemed ridiculous, but at the same time it was intriguing.

Julia nodded and picked up her phone. "Maybe I'll call it and see what happens. I can tell you're going to stay all sulky about this until we do __ something."

Miranda jumped out of her chair and leaned across the table. "Don't you dare!"

Julia laughed and held up the phone. "Too late!"

Taking a deep gulp of air, Miranda snatched the phone from Julia's hand and pressed it to her ear. It was ringing. Julia had really called, but there was no way the guy would answer . . .

"Hello?" His voice sounded deep, but young at the same time.

Miranda stiffened. Across the table, Julia's eyes widened and her mouth fell open.

"U-um . . ." Miranda stuttered, unable to finish her sentence.

"Is this Miranda?"

Her heart had already been pounding, but now it was banging so hard in her chest it felt like it was trying to jump up her throat. She should say no, but her curiosity got the best of her. "Yes," she answered in a raspy voice.

"Thought so. Is there a reason you're calling?"

You stole my purse, asshole!

But she wasn't about to say that. "Um . . ."

Was that all she could say? Sheesh.

"I can't believe you ran after me," the guy said, confirming he was the purse thief. "Nobody's ever done that before."

Miranda noticed he didn't exactly have an accent, but he sounded refined somehow, every consonant and vowel carefully placed. Nothing about any of this felt quite right. Was this how criminals acted?

"Nobody has ever called their own phone, either—at least not before I could strip it and sell it," he continued before she could say anything. "I'll give you points for that."

Miranda straightened in her chair, anger surging through her body. She felt cold and hot at the same time. With the anger came courage. "What do you mean _points_? Is this a game to you?"

"Maybe."

Miranda shot a _"what the hell?"_ look at Julia. "Who are you?" she said into the phone.

"You can call me Ollie."

"You're telling me your name?" she snorted, trying not to laugh.

"Who said that was my name?"

"Okay, _Ollie_ , I have some photos at the bottom of the purse you stole right out of my hand, and I want them back. They are important to my family. They're the only pictures we have of my grandmother. Are you enough of a cold-hearted thief not to return them?"

Julia started laughing as she sipped at her water.

"I don't know," he said in a methodical tone, as if he was searching through the purse at that very moment. "It might be tricky getting something to you."

"Just leave them somewhere and tell me the location. You can keep everything else in the purse. I won't even report you."

"That's quite the deal."

"I want the pictures back."

She imagined Ollie in his suit and white sneakers with his smooth-as-honey voice sitting somewhere dark and quiet, bent over her purse. She wanted to know more about him. How old was he? Why did he think he had to steal purses? Why was he talking to her?

"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said after a few moments of silence. "If you can find me in the Bellagio—because I know you're looking at it right now—I'll give you back something from your purse."

She looked around, surprised that he knew where she was. "I just want the pictures," she said loud enough to make a few people look over at their table. "I don't care about anything else."

"Sure you do. This camera is quite nice. Two hundred dollars in cash is nice too. Don't you want your driver's license back? And this phone . . . it's worth a little bit. You have good taste in gum, by the way. Wintergreen is my favorite."

"You're _chewing my gum_?"

"Sure, why not? This stuff is mine now, isn't it?"

"No, it's not!"

Julia stood up from her chair and pointed toward the café's main exit through the casino. They had already paid their bill and left a tip, so Miranda stood and followed Julia. Her hands were shaking with anger. Julia gestured for her to cut the call short, but Miranda didn't want to hang up yet. She was morbidly fascinated by what was happening. And a little frightened. Was this some big trap to lure her to him so he could do something to her? But what could he possibly want with her? It was a random purse snatch, and he hadn't expected her to call him.

"According to me," Ollie answered as she and Julia headed out of the restaurant, "it's mine . . . but, like I said, if you can find me I'll give one item back to you."

"Will that be the photos?"

"It will be what I choose."

This guy was on a total power trip. Miranda fought the urge to scream at him and clenched her jaw instead. "Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "I'll find you."

"It's a big building."

She rolled her eyes as they walked back outside and the Bellagio loomed in front of her. "Duh."

"Good luck. You have one hour. Oh, and you'd better not have a policeman with you or I'll never answer this phone again."

"One hour? Are you nuts?"

He hung up, and Miranda pulled the phone away from her ear and stared down it. A lot of words went through her head, but she knew she shouldn't say any of them in front of Julia.

"What's going on?" Julia asked as she took her phone and looked at Miranda. "I didn't think he'd answer."

"I didn't, either."

"What did he say?"

Miranda straightened her shoulders and tried not to think about how much ground she would have to cover inside that huge hotel and casino. The lobby alone would probably take an hour.

"He wants to play hide-and-seek," she answered, and pointed at the Bellagio. "Inside there."

♠

"I'm not letting you go in there on your own," Miranda's mother said when she heard the whole story. She had just stepped out of a taxi around the corner from Paris Las Vegas. "I don't understand what he wants."

Miranda shrugged and pulled off her sunglasses so she could look at the Bellagio as clearly as possible. It was massive _._ There was no way she could make it all the way through there in an hour, even with help from her mom and Julia. An idea seized her, and she asked Julia for her phone again.

"You're going to drain the battery," Julia snapped, holding it away. "I still want to talk to Gavin today."

"You can talk to him when we get back to our hotel! I just want to send a text."

Julia reluctantly handed it over, and Miranda texted her own number.

Julia: Do you have any clues? This is impossible! Why are you even doing this?

"Well, come on, you guys," she said after sending the message. "Let's start looking."

"Miranda!" Gabriela grabbed Miranda's arm and pulled her back. "You aren't seriously considering giving this man what he wants, are you? He's a criminal. We need to report him. Let me get another taxi and we can go to the police station." She looked at her watch. "We can be down there in half an hour, or I can just call them if you want to go straight back to the hotel. I'll bet they could even try to track him with the GPS in your phone, since he's communicating with it." She squinted and shrugged. "Or maybe they don't do stuff like that for something as small as purse thieves."

Miranda looked at the Bellagio then back to her mom. "I want to try to get my purse back," she answered, her voice almost a whine. "He's not going to hurt me, Mom. He sounded . . . I don't know . . . like this is some harmless game. He's young. Maybe he's just not that smart?"

Although she didn't believe that at all.

"It's a harmless game to _him,_ " Gabriela sighed as she ran a hand through her frizzy hair. "You can't even legally enter the casino areas without an adult, honey. I'm not worried about what we've lost, I promise."

"But the pictures, Mom. I was carrying all of them. There's nothing left now, and this might be a way to get them back."

Gabriela stepped forward and caressed Miranda's cheek. Her eyes were soft and understanding. "It's okay. They're just pictures."

Miranda closed her eyes for a moment, fighting all the emotions inside her. Maybe her mom was right. The phone beeped in her hand. Ollie had texted her back.

**Miranda:** _Olives_.

That was it? Miranda stared at the word, confused. "What is that supposed to mean?" She showed the text to her mom and sister. "I asked him if he had any clues."

"Olives?" Gabriela looked up from the phone, tapping her chin as she stared across the street.

"Are there olives inside the Bellagio?" Julia asked. "I don't get it."

Miranda bit her bottom lip, deep in thought. This guy was a complete mystery to her, and part of it was exciting.

"Maybe it's a play on his name," Miranda said, unable to come up with anything else. "You know, how he told me his name is Ollie?"

Julia scrunched her nose. "That's not a clue." She grabbed her phone from Miranda and started typing something. "Let's do a search."

"Good idea," Gabriela answered, and pulled a water bottle out of her purse.

"Olives __ is a restaurant!" Julia practically screamed. "That's where he is!" She giggled and looked at Miranda. "This is kind of fun."

"Fun?" Gabriela rolled her eyes. "You girls . . . Well, come on. Let's go look for Olives __ and see if anything happens. As long as we stick together and stay in public, we should be fine."

Miranda grinned, surprised at her mom's sudden willingness. Maybe she wanted those pictures back more than she was admitting.

♠

They walked over the bridge and through the side entrance into the Bellagio. It felt like a spacious, upscale mall, with luxurious polished floors. Plants and exotic flowers were everywhere.

"I pulled up a map," Julia said excitedly, waving her phone. Miranda smiled at how passionate she was about this whole thing—as if they were on some sort of secret spy mission and she was lucky enough to be a part of it. "The restaurant is just inside here," she said, pointing. "It'll be on the left, I think."

Julia practically burst at the seams when she spotted the sign. Miranda grinned. "You did it, Julia. Thanks!"

"Well, who knows what happens from here," their mother sighed.

They stopped in front of the restaurant. It didn't look like anybody was inside. The large sliding glass and wrought iron doors were only half open. Two women stood at a counter just outside the restaurant, and one leaned forward.

"Can I help you?" She looked them all up and down, frowning. How was she going to explain to these women what she needed? She felt completely stupid and inadequate to the task.

She glanced at her mother, who gave her a look that clearly said, "What do you want _me_ to do?" and shrugged her shoulders. Miranda realized she was only humoring her by coming into the hotel. It was obvious she didn't think she'd ever see those photos again. It made Miranda think of all the times her mother had humored her because she wouldn't leave her alone otherwise.

Gathering her courage, Miranda turned and walked to the front counter. Placing her hands on the edge, she leaned forward and tried to make her expression as desperate as possible.

Before she could open her mouth, the woman who had spoken earlier said, "The dining room isn't open again until five o'clock. Do you have a reservation?"

Miranda shook her head. "No, we don't," she answered. "I was wondering, though . . . there's this guy who was going to leave something for me here, and I don't know if it was going to be outside the restaurant or inside or what. He was kind of vague."

The lady was tall and slender with highlighted blonde hair, dark green eye shadow, and ruby lipstick. Miranda focused on her pretty eyes, hoping beyond hope that this didn't turn embarrassing.

"Was his name Ollie?" the woman asked, making Miranda's mouth fall open as the dark-haired woman next to her reached under the counter and brought out a small white bag. It was made of thick paper with braided handles and had "Prada" embossed on the front.

"Yes, it was Ollie," Miranda said, nodding.

"And you are . . .?"

"Miranda."

The dark-haired woman handed over the bag and Miranda grabbed it. She couldn't believe he'd actually left her something. It hadn't even been that hard to find it. But wasn't she supposed to find _him_? That was when she looked up and peered into the restaurant. It was dimly lit, but there was plenty of light for her to see a suited figure inside at the bar. He turned and looked over his shoulder, and Miranda's heart stopped. He was wearing white sneakers. He had a head full of messily styled brown hair . . . and he was undoubtedly, disturbingly, frustratingly good-looking. He was probably nineteen or twenty, maybe twenty-one. Her heart sank in her chest, and she quickly looked away.

The bag was heavy in her hand. Peeking inside, she saw her phone sitting at the bottom, but nothing else. Why would he return her phone? How were they supposed to keep playing their game so she could get the pictures? Then she realized that he probably had his own phone. And he had her number now.

When she looked back up, he was still turned toward her. He lifted a drink in his hand and took a sip. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Can I go in there?" Miranda asked the two women at the counter.

They had been looking at Ollie too, and both turned back to her. "Of course." The blonde gestured toward the open door, and Miranda walked back to her mom and looked her square in the eyes.

"That's him in there," she whispered. "At the bar."

"Oh, really?" Gabriela leaned forward. "Get a good look at his face so you can describe him to the police, then. What kind of game is he playing, anyway?"

"I have no idea." Miranda fished her phone out of the bag. "I'm going to go ask him. Wait here."

Without waiting for a response, she smiled at Julia and walked into the restaurant, heading straight for the bar. But Ollie was gone, along with his drink.

The bartender looked up and smiled. "May I help you, miss?"

The entire place was empty. Nobody was at the bar or tables. The bartender was the only sign of life.

"There was a guy in here," Miranda said, trying not to stutter over her words. "Like, a minute ago. Where did he go?"

The bartender's expression flickered between a knowing look and a desperate attempt to conceal what he knew. He was bald and the reddish-tinted light glowed against his skin. "He had to leave, miss."

She looked at the front entrance. There wasn't any other way out of the restaurant that she could see. He had to be in the back or out on the veranda, which also looked empty. With a final sigh, she thanked the bartender and left. It was no use pushing her luck.

# 2.

Miranda hated sleeping in hotels. Who knew how many bodies had slept on those mattresses? Just. Gross. It didn't matter if the bedding was washed. She was going to major in microbiology and already knew far too much about microscopic life to live in the same ignorant bliss as everyone else. She tried not to think about all the microorganisms on her mattress and sheets as she fell asleep that night. Julia snored softly beside her after a long gab session with Gavin out in the hallway where nobody could listen in. The rest of them had sat around watching television sitcoms after a heavy meal down at the buffet. Miranda kept obsessively checking her phone, hoping Ollie would send her another message, but nothing ever came through. Her dad had looked at her wide-eyed after he was told the story.

"I have to say," he laughed, "that's the strangest story I've ever heard. I'm happy you're okay, honey. Tomorrow you'll need to report him, don't you think?"

She nodded, but didn't mean it. She didn't want to report him. Not yet. She couldn't get his face out of her mind. It was a generic face, actually. Nothing particularly special about it except that it was perfectly balanced.

Now, as she let her head sink into her pillow, she lifted her phone and stared at it in the darkness. Her dad had told her she shouldn't have touched it. There were probably fingerprints on it, and the police might want them. Miranda rolled her eyes.

Setting her phone on the nightstand, she closed her eyes and focused on the sound of the loud air conditioner at the other end of the room. It was so loud she almost didn't hear her phone ding. It was a soft alert sound for instant messages. Her eyes flew open, and she picked up her phone. She had a new message. No way. Maybe today wasn't the end of Ollie the Thief, after all. Despite her best efforts, a sigh of relief escaped her throat as she brought up the IM. It was from a restricted number. She didn't even know it was possible to text from a restricted number.

**Unknown:** _How are you doing?_

A moment later, another message came through.

**Unknown:** _This is Ollie, by the way. You won't be able to trace these texts to any number, so don't think you or the police can try._

Sliding farther under her blankets, microorganisms and all, she turned off the sound to her phone, hid the glow, and started typing.

**Miranda:** _How am I doing? What kind of a question is that coming from someone like you?_

She waited and waited. Julia's steady breathing put her at ease. There was no way anyone in her family would approve of her talking with this guy more than she already had. While she waited, she assigned Ollie's name to his restricted number.

**Ollie:** _I'm not what you think, Miranda._

She wasn't sure she liked the tone of that, especially with him using her name. Just because she was fascinated with what he was doing and thought he was good-looking didn't mean much of anything. She was curious, that was all. Right? Gritting her teeth, she started typing again.

**Miranda:** _Then what are you, Ollie? You steal from people. That makes you a thief. I shouldn't even be talking to you. My parents want me to report you tomorrow. Now that I've seen your face, it shouldn't be too hard to give the police a decent description._

She wondered what he would have to say to that.

**Ollie:** _I might not want to deal directly with the police, but I can tell you right now that filing a report won't make any difference to me._

**Miranda:** _Why not?_

There was a long pause.

**Ollie:** _Because my father won't let me get arrested. That's all I will say about it._

She knotted her brow.

**Miranda:** _Who is your dad?_

**Ollie:** _I'm not telling you that._

**Miranda:** _Why are you talking to me?_

There was an even longer pause than before. She listened to her own breaths underneath the covers. She was starting to get sweaty, and she wasn't sure if it was because of the temperature in the room or because she was having a conversation with someone she shouldn't be talking to.

**Ollie:** _You called me . . . you seem nice, not like most people I know. I don't know why I'm talking to you. I'm sorry I stole your purse. I probably ruined your day, huh?_

She grunted quietly.

**Miranda:** _Just a little, but thanks for returning my phone, at least. And thanks for the apology._

**Ollie:** _No problem._

**Miranda:** _Can I get those photos back next, please? If you give them to me I will forget any of this ever happened. Promise._

Another long pause. She stared at his earlier messages, trying to imagine him typing those words with her in mind. What kind of a person was he? Was he like Luke and Ryder and Christian? They had all left her feeling so used and hollow, especially Christian. She had given him her heart completely—he was the first and only guy she had slept with so far. She had thought he was different, but in the end he had only used her for sex and to help him pass all of his tests so he could graduate with a 4.0 GPA. And here she was talking to another guy who was probably a bigger loser than Luke, Ryder, and Christian all put together.

Another message came through.

**Ollie:** _I'd like it if you didn't forget any of this, actually._

It was her turn to take a long time in answering. He had told her she was nice, not like most of the people he knew. As much as she hated to admit it, he seemed nice too—aside from his kleptomania.

She stopped herself and rolled her eyes. _Nice?_ What was wrong with her? Something. Something was terribly screwed up in her head.

**Miranda:** _So what do you want to happen? Because I'm confused._

She wanted him to say something about the photos, because she couldn't forget about that disappointed look on her mom's face when she'd told her about them being stolen. She had said they were "just pictures," but Miranda knew better. They were a lot more than pictures.

**Ollie:** _I'd like you to find me again tomorrow, but come by yourself this time._

She almost laughed out loud.

**Miranda:** _Why? So you can lure me into a dark alley and rape me? I'm not that stupid._

**Ollie:** _You think I'd do that? Come on._

She wasn't sure how to answer.

**Miranda:** _Um, I don't even know you._

**Ollie:** _I promise it will be a public place. I will not hurt you._

That was better.

**Miranda:** _Okay, I'll try. I'll probably be with my family most of the day. I can't promise anything._

**Ollie:** _Are you going to tell them about this conversation?_

She stared at her phone and realized how on edge she was, how hard her heart was pounding, how much she was hanging on every single word.

**Miranda:** _No, probably not._

**Ollie:** _How come?_

That was a good question.

**Miranda:** _I don't know. This is all just really weird, you know?_

**Ollie:** _It's a little strange for me too. Tell you what. You found me today. It's my turn to find you._

Yeah, that would keep her jumpy the entire day. She was about to type that she'd prefer to find him on her own timetable, but he texted first.

**Ollie:** _See you tomorrow._

She waited and waited, but he didn't text anything else, and she wasn't sure how to answer him.

♠

The next day was the biggest day of the convention for Miranda's dad. He left early in the morning, and the rest of them took their time rolling out of bed and getting ready for the day.

"My feet still hurt from yesterday," Julia complained as she laced up her tennis shoes. She was wearing a pair of very short shorts, and her brown legs made Miranda insanely jealous, even if they were pudgier than her legs. She had to tan for weeks to get that brown.

"We'll take the monorail as much as we can," their mother answered. "I'm sorry you had to walk around so much yesterday. I didn't expect you two to try to get _all_ the pictures yesterday."

"That would've been nice to know _before_ we walked all over Vegas, Mom," Julia growled. "Too late now."

"Well, suck it up, because I have a few things I want to get in today. There are rides to ride and shopping to do." She walked over to Julia and kissed the top of her head. "We'll take lots of breaks, 'kay? Then we'll come back to the hotel before dinner and we can relax down at the pool."

Miranda watched her mother closely, trying to see if she was upset about the pictures at all. Stupid Ollie. She hoped that if he did find her today, he would hand those over. She wasn't going to leave Las Vegas without them. Unfortunately, she sensed he knew that about her, and that made her a little more than frustrated. Why had he talked to her last night? She got little flutters in her stomach whenever she thought about it.

"Do you want to get a new purse today?" her mother asked as they headed out the door.

Miranda shrugged. "Maybe."

Or maybe she'd be lucky enough to get her old one back.

♠

Miranda spent the rest of the day with her stomach in knots. Everywhere she walked, she kept darting her eyes all around. There was no way Ollie could find __ her with no clues. He didn't even know she would be on the Strip today. A part of her wanted to know how good he really was at this hide-and-seek game. Would he find her inside M&M's World? The arcade? One of the dozens of shops their mother was dragging them into? Needless to say, Miranda was not in the mood to shop. After lunch, they wandered into a shopping area at The Venetian, and she fought the urge to whine. She was eighteen. She could humor her mother for a few more hours.

"They have gondola rides here," Gabriela said excitedly.

They took the escalators to the second floor. There were shops everywhere, all made to look like they were in Venice, and a ceiling painted and lit to look like a soft summer sky dotted with clouds. The smell of food and cigarettes drifted through the air. As she had done all day, Miranda looked around for Ollie, but she knew there was no way she was going to find him—especially if she was with her family.

"I think I'll sit this one out," she said as they neared the ticket booth in the main part of the center.

Gabriela looked over at the canal where they started the boat rides. A few gondolas floated by, filled with people who looked a little bored. "You sure?" she asked Miranda. "This looks kind of fun."

Miranda waved her hand. "Give me the camera and I'll take your picture so you don't have to buy one of those overpriced ones they take."

"Oh, good idea." Gabriela handed over the new camera she had purchased that morning—a simple point-and-shoot instead of something fancy.

Miranda could tell Julia was having second thoughts about the ride, and gave her an evil glare she hoped would be interpreted as _"Just let me be alone for a few freaking minutes."_ Julia seemed to take the hint, and they went over to the ticket booth as Miranda started walking around to find a good spot for pictures. She crossed a bridge over the canal and walked around until she was on a little overpass overlooking the loading area for the rides.

Finally. Alone. She snapped a few pictures of them waiting in line then pulled out her phone. There was a new message she had missed. Her heart started to beat faster.

**Ollie:** _Any hints for me today? It's only fair since I gave you one yesterday. I don't even know if you're inside a building. Or on the Strip. Or what!_

She smiled. She shouldn't be enjoying this. She shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't. But she was. Thinking carefully, she typed one word.

**Miranda:** _Canal._

Was that too vague? She suspected if he knew Las Vegas as well as she guessed he did, he would know where she was right away. She was obviously a tourist, and he'd jump to the first touristy thing in Las Vegas that had to do with a canal.

Luckily, the line was pretty long, and the rides lasted about fifteen minutes apiece. That gave her maybe half an hour depending on how long that line lasted. She typed another message.

**Miranda:** _You'd better hurry because I won't be alone much longer._

He didn't answer, and as the minutes ticked by, she grew more and more impatient. Las Vegas was big. Maybe he was so far away it would take him hours to reach her. Finally, after about twenty minutes, her mom and sister boarded a boat with a few other people. She snapped as many pictures as she could, and they were soon gone down the canal and out of sight.

Well, it was now or never. Turning in circles, she desperately hoped he was somewhere. She'd settle for five minutes with him. One minute. Anything.

There were people everywhere. Constant chatter and occasional laughter reverberated all around her. She took her hands off the railing in front of her, remembering that thousands of people had touched it before her. Sometimes she hated public places more than anything else. She couldn't think too much about it.

"Having fun?"

She spun around and there he was, standing right in front of her. He was in a suit again, like yesterday, but today his sneakers were black instead of white. Still, they were sneakers. Surprisingly, though, they looked great with the outfit. Relaxed and comfortable. When she looked into his eyes, she swallowed a lump in her throat and took a few steps back. He had light-colored eyes, but it was difficult to tell what color they really were under the artificial lighting. A little blue and a little gray, maybe some green. There was a faint hint of scruff on his jaw, barely noticeable. He really was as good-looking as she remembered. His nose was big, but the longer she looked at him the more it suited him. She tamped down her rising emotions, remembering all the pain other good-looking guys had brought her.

"You found me," was all she could manage to force out of her mouth.

His lips curled into a smile. He kept his eyes on hers. "That was the easiest hint ever. Probably as easy as my Olives hint."

_Just like we're finding excuses to meet_ , she thought to herself. Her mouth was getting drier by the second.

"So?" she said, gaining a little courage. "Where's my prize?"

"Your prize?" he laughed. "Didn't _I_ find _you_?"

She looked at his tie. It was a pretty yellow color checkered with thin brown lines. It reminded her of sunflowers. "I thought the whole point of this was to get my stuff back," she said boldly, and held out an open hand, waiting.

His smile stayed put as he reached into his back pocket and pulled out her small wallet. He placed it gently into her hand, and she tried not to think too much about how warm his skin was as it slid against hers. She noticed some thick, raised scars along his knuckles.

"Thought that was pretty valuable," he said. "You might want it back."

She opened it up. The money was still there. Her debit card, her and Julia's monorail passes, her driver's license. He hadn't taken a thing. She looked up. "I don't understand. I really just don't get any of this."

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked, stepping closer. His feet were close to hers now, and she fought the urge to step back once more. "I like to play games, and you're fun to play them with."

"Is that why you stole my purse? To play a game?"

His smile fell and he shook his head. "No, that's not why I took your purse. That had nothing to do with who you are, but this . . . whatever it is we're doing . . . it has everything to do with you."

She didn't know what to make of that, but his words and the sincerity and sadness in his voice made her breath catch in her throat. She looked down at the canal, expecting her family to show up at any second. She looked back at Ollie. He had his hands in his pockets now.

"You're keeping my purse so we can keep this up, aren't you?" she asked. "You're going to hold on to those pictures for a long time."

He didn't answer. He seemed excruciatingly young at that moment.

"If you return everything to me," she said carefully, "I promise I'll keep talking to you."

He let out a soft laugh. "So, you're laying down the terms now, even though I'm the one who has what you want?"

She supposed that was true. "You don't want anything from me, then? I guess I'll just get over my losses and move on. Keep it all, and if you want my wallet back, here you go." She held it out to him, surprised at her response. It seemed the only way to try to read him at the moment.

He looked down at the wallet and frowned. "I don't want that. It's yours."

"So is the rest of my stuff you stole." It was frustrating how much she was starting to like him and hate him at the same time.

"The game is still on," he said as he watched her lower the wallet. "It's your turn next."

Before she could answer, he turned and walked away. "I'm only here for three more days!" she yelled out as he disappeared into the crowd.

Turning, she saw that her mother's gondola was unloading at the dock. Perfect timing.

♠

She waited the rest of the afternoon for another message from Ollie, but none came. After dinner, she and Julia put on their bikinis and went down to the hotel pool. Miranda found a lounge chair and slathered on some sunscreen.

"That's why you don't tan," Julia scoffed as she stretched out on her chair and opened her arms wide. "You gotta let it all soak in."

"And get a sunburn?" Miranda said as she slid on her sunglasses and leaned back. "I don't think so. You don't even need a suntan. You should at least protect yourself."

Julia sat up on her elbows and stared at Miranda. "You're really into protecting me, aren't you?"

Miranda kept looking up at the palm trees and sky overhead. She didn't want to think about how in a few weeks she'd be moving away for good. She would miss Julia so much, and it was true—she _did_ want to protect her. Their parents generally seemed like they were more into letting their daughters figure stuff out on their own than trying to prevent them from doing anything stupid. Once Miranda had turned eighteen, they had told her she was old enough to do whatever she wanted, whether they liked it or not. But she had always felt that way. They rarely pushed anything on her unless it was deeply important to them, like taking those pictures. What if Julia really did screw up with Gavin? What if he broke her heart?

"I worry about you, is all," Miranda finally said. "Is it a crime to care about my little sister?"

Julia shifted on her chair and adjusted her bikini top. "Fine, be protective." She turned around and motioned for Miranda to rub the sunscreen on her back. It was clear how much sway Miranda held over Julia, even if Julia acted annoyed about it half the time.

"So," Miranda said, "can you keep a secret?"

"Do I ever not keep your secrets?" Julia pointed out.

"Okay, okay." Miranda rubbed some lotion between her hands and started applying it to Julia's shoulder blades. "So, while you were on your little gondola ride this afternoon, I met Ollie face-to-face. He gave me my wallet."

Julia spun around, leaving a long, white streak across her back. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, and, Julia . . . he's . . . cute."

"Well, I saw that at the restaurant. What I could see of him, anyway."

"Yeah?"

Julia bobbed her head up and down. "Oh, yeah, totally."

"But he's a thief. What do you think about that?"

Miranda was eager to hear Julia's answer. She had to get a second opinion about this. Julia's eyes clouded over for a moment.

"He's returning your stuff, isn't he? Is he nice? What did he say to you?"

Telling her the story, Miranda was careful to leave out the fact that she'd messaged with him the night before. That felt more private, for some reason. Finally, she let out a heavy sigh and pushed Julia around so she could finish her back. "This whole thing is crazy," she muttered. "I hate every guy I've ever been with. I don't want to be with one right now, so why can't I stop thinking about him?"

Julia giggled. "Because maybe he's better than all the others."

♠

That night in bed, Miranda turned on her side and kept her phone in her hand. She didn't want to miss any messages. She thought about her friends back home. None of them would understand this. They were all so levelheaded, telling her that she should probably stop trying to find someone to be with. "You have college to worry about. You don't want complications," they told her over and over. And they were right.

Eventually, she drifted off to sleep, only to wake up to the vibrations of an incoming message. She almost shot up out of bed, but calmed herself. She was only doing this to get the photos. Nothing was going to happen with this guy. She looked at his message.

**Ollie:** _Fortuna._

Oh, yes, it was her turn to find him. Annoyed, she looked at the clock. It was midnight. Was he serious? She opened the browser on her phone and typed in _fortuna las vegas_. The very first hit stated: _Coffee in Las Vegas|Fortuna Las Vegas|LVH._

LVH was the Las Vegas Hilton. Pulling up her message app, she typed, _So you're here at the Hilton?_

**Ollie:** _Yeah. Come downstairs._

She looked up at her family. All of them were completely out since it had been such a busy day. She typed, _To do what?_

**Ollie:** _Silly. The game continues. I'll give you another item from your purse._

**Miranda:** _Will it be the pictures?_

**Ollie:** _No._

Ugh, he was stubborn.

**Miranda:** _Fine. I suppose I could use some coffee._

**Ollie:** _See you in a few._

She couldn't believe what she was doing, but what the hell? One more thing from her purse would be nice.

Slipping out of bed, she pulled a small T-shirt over her camisole and decided her sweats would have to be fine for this meeting. She wasn't here to impress him. She'd be surprised if he was still in a suit, though. Pulling her hair up into a messy bun, she tiptoed over to the hotel desk and pulled out a notebook and pen. She wrote a note that she had gone downstairs because she couldn't sleep, and left it on her pillow in case anybody woke up and wondered where she'd gone.

The elevator was empty and smelled like cigarette smoke. She leaned against the wall and stared groggily at the floor numbers as they decreased. Finally, she was at the lobby and the doors slid open. Bright, gaudy light met her, and she blinked as she stepped out. She was surprised how busy the place was at midnight. Even at that hour, people were still swarming the casinos. As she neared the café, she scanned the tables for any sign of Ollie. It was a small café, open twenty-four hours. The tables were dark wood and tall, like stools. Several couples were scattered around. A group of young guys sat around a table drinking wine, but none of them looked like Ollie. Where was he?

Then he raised his hand and waved to her. He was in a back corner, wearing a charcoal Las Vegas 51s baseball cap and a black polo shirt. He grinned as she approached him. Wow, he sure was happy to see her.

"Hey, thanks for coming," he said as she sat on a chair across from him. A yawn built up in her throat. She tried to suppress it, but failed.

"I'm sorry," she said when she finished. "I was . . . um, yeah . . . asleep."

He leaned forward. "Sorry about that, but you said you were only here for three more days, so I've got to make use of the time we've got. Right?"

She shook her head, trying to wake up. "I still don't understand what you—"

"Let me buy you a coffee. Are you hungry? Want a pastry too?"

Her eyes widened. He was going to buy her stuff? She considered demanding he hand over the purse item so she could go back upstairs and sleep, but she knew she'd regret it. She wanted to talk to him and find out as much as she could.

"Um, sure," she answered. "Anything Danish is fine. Nothing with nuts. Regular coffee."

"Okay, I'll be right back. Oh, and this is yours." He reached down to a leather briefcase at the foot of his chair and pulled out her mother's camera. After setting it in front of her, he left to go order. She picked it up, surprised. The camera was probably the most valuable item in her purse, worth a few thousand dollars. She had already figured he wasn't after money since he wore nice clothes. So why did he steal?

As she waited, she scrolled through the photos on the camera. Seeing her and Julia together made her smile. They had done a good job of capturing the same feel as in their grandmother's photos. Maybe she was more grateful to have the camera back than the photos. Maybe these pictures were just as valuable.

"Here you go," Ollie said as he placed a coffee cup and plate in front of her. He had chosen a big, round Danish with some sort of fruit in the middle. Her stomach growled, and she laughed.

"Guess I didn't know I was hungry."

"Me too," he replied, sitting in his chair. He put a pastry of his own on the table then leaned back and looked at her. She took a sip of coffee, unsure of what he wanted from her now.

"So, is your name really Ollie?" she asked.

He picked up his pastry and took a big bite. A few flakes fluttered to the table. "Getting right to the nitty-gritty, I see," he said after swallowing.

"Well, I . . . I need to know more about you before this . . . relationship . . . goes any further."

"Further?" A smile played on his lips.

She waved her hand, annoyed at her difficulty in expressing herself. "I'm confused about everything, okay? Can you answer my question, please?"

A sly smile lifted his lips. "Why don't we play another game right here at this table? I'll answer whatever questions you want—within reason—as long as you win."

Miranda wanted to laugh, but at the same time her stomach flipped upside-down. Discovering more about Ollie was a proposition she couldn't turn down. "What's the game?" she asked.

"Well," he said, drawing out the word as long as possible before taking another bite of his pastry and chewing slowly as he looked up at the ceiling. Miranda bristled a little at his stalling. Maybe she shouldn't try to force information out of him, but why else would he have kept this hide-and-seek game going?

"Thought of something?" she nudged.

He swallowed. "Yes, I have. I'll need to get something, so is it all right if I leave for a few minutes?"

"Um, sure."

"Great, I'll be right back."

She watched as he left the café and disappeared around a corner. By the time he came back, she had finished her coffee and most of her pastry. He noticed her empty cup and went to order her another one.

"Wow, thanks," she said as he set it down in front of her.

"No problem. Can't have you falling asleep in the middle of our game . . . although that might be to my advantage."

She laughed as he sat down across from her. "So?" she said. "Where's this game we're going to play?"

"Right here." He pulled a brand new deck of cards from his back pocket. He ripped off the shrink-wrap and broke the seal on the box, sliding out the fresh cards. Each card had "Las Vegas Hilton" printed on the back. He started shuffling the cards so fast she could hardly keep track of what he was doing.

"You play a lot?" she asked, truly curious.

The sly smile ghosted across his lips again. "No questions from here on out—unless you win a round."

"Of what?"

"War."

She almost choked on her coffee. "War? That could take forever before I even get to ask you a question. We'll be here all night."

He glanced at her coffee and laughed. "Is that a problem?"

It wasn't a problem, necessarily. But how was she going to find out much of anything? That was _if_ she won a round, which could take hours or minutes. It was all luck.

When she looked up at Ollie's expression, she realized he was studying her. "I'm kidding," he said, easing her tension. "Mostly."

"Oh?"

"You don't have to win a _whole_ game __ to ask me a question—just when we hit a war round. Whoever has the highest card on the fourth card gets to ask a question."

She nodded, happy that she'd have more chances this way. The she froze. "Wait, you get to ask questions too?"

"Well, yeah." He finished shuffling the cards and started dealing them into two piles. "Doesn't seem fair if I don't, right?" he asked as her pile grew with every other card he set down.

"I guess. Just, you know, like you said . . . within reason." There was no way she was going to start spouting off her whole life history or anything, especially if it came to past boyfriends.

Ollie finished dealing the cards and Miranda straightened her pile into a neat stack in front of her. She pushed aside her coffee and leaned forward, eager to start. Why was spending time with Ollie so much fun? Whatever the answer was, it wasn't something she wanted to dwell on for too long. Soon, she was so into the game she couldn't think of anything but the cards and the first question she would ask if she won. It was a game of chance. She had to win at least a few times.

"Yes!" she said, fist-pumping the air as she turned over her fourth card and beat Ollie with a queen over a ten of spades.

His smile faltered for a moment. "Congrats," he said as she gathered up the cards and added them to the bottom of her pile. "Lay it on me."

She took a deep breath, knowing she had to make these questions count. "I know this is probably a stupid question," she said, looking into his eyes, "but what is your real name?"

His eyes sparkled. "Well, that's easy. It's Oliver, but I hate it, so don't use it."

"Why?"

Grinning, he raised a hand. "You got your answer, so now we move on."

"Oh, fine."

They continued to play. Her heart beat faster with every turn of a card. No matches. No matches. No matches. She tapped her foot and held her breath. No matches. No matches. Finally, a pair of kings.

"War!" she yelled a little too loudly. The café was nearly empty now, and it almost seemed like they should be whispering.

Ollie set down three cards on top of his king. She followed suit and then turned over her fourth card, a six of hearts. Ollie flipped over a four of spades and groaned.

"I _always_ get lucky at this game," he sighed. "I think I've met my match."

She glanced at his small stack of cards. She had at least two-thirds of the entire deck now, since she seemed to be putting down the highest cards eighty percent of the time.

"You get what you get," she said with a shrug, and gathered up her winning cards. She rubbed her hands together. "So . . . why did you steal my purse?"

His expression changed from irritation to a flash of panic and then resolve. He took a bite of pastry, chewing slower than normal. Was he going to lie to her? She hated liars. All the guys she had been with were liars. She knew the telltale signs, at least—if he looked up or down, if he cleared his throat, if his voice seemed off. But so far he was looking her straight in the eyes. No throat clearing. He swallowed.

"It's because of my father," he said, still looking straight at her. "See, he's the head of a big corporation."

She nodded, but felt stupid. She didn't understand at all. "What big corporation?"

She expected him to call her out for asking an extra question, but he didn't. He frowned. "The corporation over the Bellagio, the MGM Grand, The Mirage, Excalibur, New York-New York, Circus Circus . . . I can keep going if you want. It's not just casinos in Vegas."

"Oh." She ran her finger along the edge of the table. "So, you're totally rich."

"No, my _father_ is totally rich, and he's pretty much married to his job and wants me to fill his shoes."

She looked up, a question on her lips before she swallowed it back down. He still hadn't answered the original question, so she waited.

"I want to fill his shoes one day, don't get me wrong," he continued, "but it frustrates the hell out of me because he's so . . ." He leaned back in his chair and clenched his jaw. "He's so controlling. I'm twenty, right?"

She nodded, as if she'd known this all along.

"Well, he thinks that's old enough for me to start working under him full time. For a few years now I've been working for him as an intern. He thinks I don't have another life, that I'm in some big hurry to grow up and be just like him."

Tilting her head, she tried not to laugh. "Another life? You mean, like a life of crime?"

He snorted and folded his arms. "You sneak those in there, don't you?"

"Oh, sorry." She put her fingers to her lips. "Habit."

"I suppose I can give you a freebie answer. Contrary to what you may believe, I haven't stolen a lot of purses. Three . . . four, counting yours."

She folded her arms, copying his stance. "My original question still remains—why did you do it?"

Letting out a big sigh, he leaned forward and started pushing the flaky crumbs across the table. Again, she noticed the scars along his knuckles. They were only on his right hand. She almost felt bad for making him spill so much. He hadn't even had a chance to ask her a question yet.

"About three months ago," he said slowly as he stared down at his lap, "I had a fight with my father about what I want to do with my life. I told him I want to be part of the company, but that I can't pour myself into it one hundred percent yet. The man doesn't get it. He doesn't understand that I want to do other things like maybe go to college or travel for a while . . . or, you know, find people I want to be with." His eyes flicked up to hers, and she froze in place. "See, it's all or nothing for him. He's a machine, and he wants me to be a machine too. Ever since my mother died, he's been that way. I don't blame him, but that doesn't mean _I_ have to be that way too."

She nodded, following him so far. Her parents were so carefree she had a hard time imagining them forcing her to do much of anything. She had chosen her own extracurricular activities at school. She had dated whoever she wanted without them interfering. She had chosen her own university. Her life was her own, and she supposed that was something Ollie had never felt. No wonder he seemed upset.

"So, during this fight," he continued, "I told my father that if he couldn't give me a little bit of freedom, that I would have nothing to do with the family business, ever."

Her eyes widened, and he continued. "When he realized I was serious, he started to relent, but then he told me life is too short to waste it doing things you don't know are going to work out or not. His company is a sure bet—it's guaranteed security for me. Forever. He doesn't understand that sometimes . . . sometimes people need to make mistakes and take risks to figure out who they are and what they want."

She nodded and realized she was taking a risk just sitting here in front of Ollie. Was it because she wanted to figure out who she was? Ollie fascinated her, no doubt about that. She wanted to dig into him and find out what made him tick—and, most of all, why he made her feel so alive whenever she talked to him.

He let out a heavy sigh and wiped a hand across his forehead, pushing up his baseball cap. "This is a long answer, I'm sorry."

"I don't mind, really," she said. "I'm sorry if it's stressful for you. I can . . . I can leave if you want."

He pushed his cap back down on his head. "What? No. I'm almost finished, it's all right. So, my father told me if I really felt that way, then he wasn't going to support me anymore. He seized all my accounts. He evicted me from my apartment since he owns the complex. I really only have one bag of stuff that belongs to me now. He sold everything I left behind. He took my car. He even canceled my phone service."

The air in her lungs seemed to have been sucked right out. She opened her mouth a few times, speechless.

"That can't be legal," she finally managed to say.

He grunted something harsh under his breath. "If you're my father, it doesn't matter. He can get away with pretty much anything when it comes to me. I wasn't left completely high and dry, although I'm sure he wanted me to be. I've been living at the Bellagio. Not everyone loves my father to pieces, and I know a few employees there who have helped me. So far, my father hasn't found out."

"So the purse stealing . . ."

"I'm getting to that."

She nodded, as if this was perfectly logical, as if everything he was telling her justified him stealing other people's stuff. Then again, was that any worse than what his dad was doing to him?

"A few months ago, before any of this happened with my father, I was walking on the Strip and I saw a man steal a woman's purse. He did it so perfectly, so quietly, that it didn't register what had happened until a minute after the fact. I started paying more attention to stuff going on around me. I hung out in that same area, and, sure enough, a few days later I saw the same man stealing another purse. This time, I followed him. I was going to turn him in, but then he started talking to me. He said it was how he survived. He told me he could teach me some secrets if I didn't turn him in. I don't know why I agreed. I guess I was curious. I mean, I've never done anything like that in my life—talk to a criminal like that. It was exciting, in a way. It felt like giving my father the finger, even though he had no idea I'd done it."

_So that was when you started stealing purses._ He'd done it because he was curious. Her eyebrows pushed together, and he looked up at her with widened eyes.

"That's not when I started stealing purses," he explained quickly, as if he'd read her mind. "All I said was I talked to him. I thought it was interesting, and that was the end of it."

She gave him a hopeful look, urging him to keep going.

"Until my father took everything away from me," he said, as if pushing it out of a dark corner. "I was angry and hurt, and even though I had exactly what I thought I wanted—freedom—for someone like me who's used to having whatever he wants and needs, I sure don't feel very free. My friends at the Bellagio have helped me out as much as they can. They've helped me stay in a room there, but that's all they can really do, short of lending me money. I was too proud to ask, too proud to beg, and too stupid to think I could get it easily. I hit the casinos first, since I'm all right at some of the games. I made a fair amount—enough to live off for a while, anyway. I figured if I could keep rolling it in and making _something_ , I'd be okay, right?"

She nodded. "Sure."

"Except . . . my father pretty much has his hands in everything, including the casinos, even ones he doesn't own. He knows people. He must have started spreading the word to keep me out of as much gaming as possible. I was told to leave tables over and over, and if I wasn't told, I was pretty much driven away because I couldn't seem to win no matter what I did."

Miranda was starting to feel sick to her stomach.

"My father's point was clear," Ollie said. "He found me on the Strip one night and offered to give everything back to me if I'd start working for him as a full-time employee. But I was stupid and I said no. I told him what he'd done to me was better than being controlled by him. I told him I'd find another job and be just fine. He told me good luck and left, and I knew . . . I knew he was going to do everything in his power to keep me from succeeding. See, I know my father pretty well by now. I know this can't go on forever. We care about each other too much, even if that sounds crazy to you. This is a game to him—a way to teach me a lesson, to show me what it's like with no money, no security, no options. And he's right. He really is. I'd probably be happier giving in, but then . . . well—"

"No!" Miranda leaned forward and grabbed his hand. "You can't give in to that. He's a tyrant."

"He's my father."

"Yes, but that doesn't make any of this right. All you wanted was a little freedom, and look what he's done to you."

"That's what I thought too. That's what I thought when I saw that man steal another purse, and I thought to myself, there's something my father can't control _._ So I did it. I stole a purse, and then another, and another. I sold what I could, used the money to get another phone and buy some new clothes so I could try to build myself from the ground up. Then . . . then _you_ happened _._ "

She froze with her fingers still curled around his hand. He was warm, and she had to admit touching him sent a thrill straight through her like an electric current.

"What about me?" she whispered.

He looked down at her hand and then returned his attention to her eyes, his voice dead serious as he said, "You'll have to win another round to get your answer to that."

"You . . . ugh!" She was halfway between laughing and reaching out to punch him in the arm. "Fine."

They started slapping down their cards as fast as possible, but she could see she was losing her edge as Ollie took more and more of her cards. Finally, two jacks. Miranda set three cards face down on top of her jack and flipped over her fourth at the same time as Ollie. Hers was a two of diamonds and his was an ace of hearts. _Damn._

"About time," he said, gathering up his spoils. "So, dear Miranda, you must answer truthfully . . ."

She kept her eyes on his, her stomach turning over at the thought of what he might ask her. She had a feeling he didn't know how to ask trivial questions.

"Why did you call your phone after I stole your purse?"

She stopped herself from letting out a sigh of relief. She didn't want it to seem like it was too easy to answer, not after he had spilled out so much painful information to her.

"It was my sister's idea," she explained. "She dialed my number because she thought it would be funny and that I'd get over losing everything easier if I saw that trying to reach you was pointless. But it turns out it wasn't pointless, so I guess the joke was on her in the end."

He smiled. "So she dialed and you took the phone?"

"Yep. I had a mini heart attack when you answered."

"I almost didn't answer."

"Oh?" That was a surprise. He had sounded so confident when he had answered.

He poked at his stack of cards, making them fall sideways. "Yeah, but I was looking at your driver's license when your phone rang and you looked so . . . so nice . . . and pretty . . . and you'd chased after me. I wanted to know what kind of a person would be brave enough to do that. So I answered."

He thought she was pretty? She tried to control the blush she knew must be all over her face, and then realized they were answering each other's questions outside of the game rules.

Ollie must have realized it too. He straightened his cards and cleared his throat. "Despite the risk of you thinking I'm a little stalker-ish for staring at your driver's license, let's, uh, move on."

"All right."

They slapped down some more cards. Ollie's pile was growing dangerously large. She wondered what would happen if she ended up with nothing and the game was officially over. Would the questions stop? Would Ollie feel relieved because he wouldn't have to spill more information?

She won the next round, which increased her pile of cards just a bit. She repeated her last question as she straightened her stack. "So, what about me? What did you mean, I 'happened'?"

Chewing on his bottom lip, he folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. She liked the way his hat shaded his eyes. They were light and dark at the same time as he looked at her. "You called your phone. I heard your voice. I realized what I'd been doing to other people by stealing their stuff—how wrong it really was, even if it felt like the easiest option. I knew I couldn't keep doing it." His eyes found hers, and she stared into the light gray pools and then down to his lips.

"What are you going to do?" she whispered.

"I'm going to apologize to my father and get my life back."

"But you said you wouldn't have a life if you do that. What kind of life is that—living under someone's thumb?"

He shook his head. "You're tricky, Miranda . . . sneaking in all these questions when I'm feeling so vulnerable."

Another hot blush blossomed on her cheeks. "I don't mean to, I'm sorry."

"It's all right. Let's keep going." He turned over his next card, and she followed right after him. It was another pair. She won the round again, and it looked as if their piles were equal now. This game could go on for hours.

Before she could even repeat her last question, Ollie leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "I'll find a way to make it work with my father," he said. "He's the only family I have that cares I exist."

Miranda looked down as he reached forward and traced a finger up her arm. Since when had they become this intimate? Since, like, three seconds ago, apparently. She didn't mind. He seemed so alone, so sad. What would it be like to live without her family? It was a foreign concept to her. Here she was, perfectly fine in her life. Loved, taken care of, but given her freedom at the same time. That was . . . well, it was something she would never take for granted again. What made her more depressed than anything else was wondering if Ollie would give up any chance of such a thing if he gave in to his dad.

"I don't think you should," she said softly. "I think it would be a mistake to throw yourself into that life if you know it's not going to make you happy."

He smirked. "Who says it won't make me happy?"

She realized she didn't know Ollie at all, and it made her sad. She wanted to know everything about him. She wanted to hold him and press her lips against that soft spot on his neck, right there above the collar of his T-shirt. Time seemed to stop for a second as she relished his touch on her arm. Then he pulled away and she returned to reality.

"What about freedom and risks and mistakes?" she asked. "What about finding someone you want to be with?" She almost gulped down that last part, but let it come out.

"I don't know," he grumbled. "I don't know what I want, where I want to go. And I don't have anyone in my life who understands. When you grow up with a lot of money, you'd be surprised how hard it is to make real friends. You know, people who aren't just there to use you. Even ones who start out meaning well . . . something always happens and it turns sour over one thing or another." He studied Miranda's face so intently his eyes were like lasers trying to pierce through her. "Which probably means this whole thing with us—whatever it is—isn't going to end well."

She laughed and his gaze broke. "You're penniless, Ollie. I can guarantee I'm not using you. Besides, how many friendships have you begun by stealing? This isn't exactly typical."

His face broke into a smile. "Well, I'm not completely penniless. I've managed to hold on to a little money."

" _Stolen_ money," she retorted in a teasing voice.

"Not all of it's stolen. Besides, I'm returning your stuff, aren't I? Wait, so are you . . . are you saying we're friends?" He spoke the last word as if it was a sacred thing. To him, it probably was.

She returned his smile and leaned back in her chair. Taking a sip of coffee, she nodded. "I'd like to be."

"Well, that's . . ." He shook his head and took another bite of his pastry. "That's really great," he said softly through his chewing.

He was still holding the pastry close to his mouth, and she noticed his scars once again. That would be her next question, but she'd have to wait because Ollie won the next round. Her heart pounded as he tapped his front teeth with a fingernail. "What's your greatest fear?"

"My greatest fear? That seems like a vague sort of question."

He shrugged. "I'm curious. A person's greatest fear can say a lot about them."

"Well, um . . ." A hundred things raced through her mind. She could say it was being trapped in one place forever like her parents, but that would be a lie because she feared deadly viruses and plane crashes more than that. In all reality, she wanted safety. Staying in one place could guarantee that. But she also craved excitement and adventure and had always dreamed of breaking out of her shell. To her, safety and excitement were akin to oil and water. Was it possible to have both?

"Wow, lots of thinking for this one," Ollie interrupted her thoughts. "Is it a complicated question?"

"It's a complicated answer," she replied as she looked into the bottom of her coffee cup. Was she really going to spill her darkest fear to a guy she barely knew? For some reason, she wanted to do just that. "I think it's ending up alone," she said, looking across the table into his eyes. She let them act as an anchor. "But it's not that I'm afraid of _being_ alone . . . because I'm not. I like to be by myself. It's more like I'm afraid that I'm going to die alone, that I'm going to look back and see that nobody ever wanted me enough to stay with me, or that I was too afraid to want someone enough to stay with them . . . that I'll end up valuing safety more than the rewards of risk."

Ollie blinked. His expression was serious, almost shocked. "My father once told me everyone dies alone," he said with a crack in his voice. "But I don't want to believe him."

She tried to swallow and realized how dry her mouth had become. "Should we keep going?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yeah."

They kept playing. Ollie's stack grew thicker, and Miranda laughed when he commented that he'd finally eased back into his groove. When they hit another pair, Miranda squeezed her eyes shut as she turned over her fourth card. Ollie had a queen. When she opened her eyes, she grinned. She'd put down a king.

"Nice," Ollie laughed. "Hey, do you want more coffee?"

She glanced at her empty cup. "Are you trying to avoid my question?"

"Just stalling," he admitted, and grabbed her cup. When he returned, she had gathered a ll her winning cards and was thinking about how she'd ask him about those scars. She took a sip of the rich, hot coffee and swirled it around in her mouth as Ollie settled back into his chair.

She nodded toward his hand. "Can you tell me what happened?"

He looked confused for a minute then glanced down at his hand. "Oh, that."

"It looks like it was painful." As she sipped her coffee, she studied the raised, white flesh spread in a large spider web pattern across his knuckles.

"The cuts were pretty deep," he explained as he studied the scars. "But if I had to do it all over again, I would."

"That sounds like an interesting story." She smirked. "That's a subtle hint to tell me, by the way. I'm really curious."

"Oh, I can tell you. It's nothing, really. I had a girlfriend a few years ago and her ex found us at a party one night. He tried to attack her with a beer bottle and I got in the way—on purpose, of course."

"Wow . . . that's amazing, Ollie."

He laughed. "Why? I did the right thing, even if she did leave me a month later."

"I'm not sure any of my old boyfriends would have done something like that for me," she said, watching Ollie rub the scars as if he was remembering how much it had hurt.

He lifted his attention to her. "Then they didn't deserve you." 

# 3.

When Miranda returned to the hotel room, it didn't seem anyone had missed her. It was two-thirty and she was full of coffee and pastry and sugar. She was high as a kite. Ollie was her friend now. The guy who stole her purse was her friend. __ That was so strange, but cool at the same time. She pulled off her T-shirt and slid into bed, thinking over everything Ollie had said. After he told her about the scars, none of their questions were as serious as they had been earlier. Things like favorite colors and foods. Nothing too revealing. She figured they were both exhausted from sharing all that emotionally draining information.

Her phone buzzed, and she snatched it off the nightstand to see another message from Ollie.

Ollie: When can I see you again, Miranda?

She looked down at her sleeping sister. Julia was the whole reason Ollie was her friend now. If she hadn't dialed Miranda's cell phone number that day, none of this would have happened.

Miranda: Tomorrow, I hope. When do I get my pictures back?

Ollie: All in good time, my friend. All in good time.

♠

When she woke in the morning, she showered and stood in the bathroom to blow dry her hair. She couldn't stop smiling at herself in the mirror. Ollie had told her the truth about everything. At least, it seemed like he had. He was so genuine and open. Was it possible things could happen with him? A real relationship that wouldn't end up breaking her heart?

"You're certainly happy today," Miranda's mother said as she came into the bathroom and started applying her makeup. "What's going on?"

Miranda grinned. "Oh, nothing. Just got your camera back last night."

"What?" Gabriela turned around, as if the camera might appear in front of her. "Where?"

"It's on the dresser."

"Right here, honey!" Miranda's father yelled out. He appeared around the corner, holding up the camera. "Appears to be in perfect condition. How did you get this back?"

She gave them both a cryptic smile. "He's not really a thief. I mean, he is, but he's not."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Gabriela scoffed.

"He's going to return everything by the time we leave. That's all I can say. So there's no use in reporting him."

Her dad's face crinkled in confusion. "What's going on, Manda? Do you know this guy?"

"I do now. Just trust me, okay? Everything is fine."

She knew they would drop it, and they did.

They spent the day as a whole family, since her dad had the day off from the convention. As they ate lunch and went on some rides, Miranda considered staying home and forgetting about college altogether. Her mom seemed so stressed sometimes when it came to Grammy, as if losing all those pictures in the flood was more about losing a part of herself and needing to find it again some other way. Miranda wondered if staying home might be for the best. Moving away was just another thing that would make her mom feel like she'd lost someone important. Would staying help, though? Julia wasn't going to stick around forever, either. For today, Miranda decided, she would savor being with her family, even if Julia kept complaining that she missed Gavin so much she was going to die.

"I think I'm starting to understand," Miranda said as they took their seats for an afternoon magic show at one of the hotels.

Julia leaned closer. "Understand what?"

"Missing someone."

Julia grinned. "Ah-ha. You have things to tell me. I saw your note on your pillow last night, by the way. 'Fess up, sista."

Miranda laughed as the lights dimmed and the show began. "Well, not now, but later I will."

She tried not to think about Ollie and how much she was starting to like him. She wanted him to touch her again so she could feel that shock of excitement run through her. She wanted to show him not everybody in the world was out to use him or exert power over him. He didn't have to steal in order to triumph over his father, and he didn't have to give in to his father's little game in order to survive. There had to be another way.

♠

"Let's go see the Bellagio fountains," Miranda's dad said as they were walking to a monorail station so they could ride back to the hotel. Miranda kept staring at her phone, wondering why Ollie hadn't messaged her at all today. She had texted a few messages to him, but there had been no response. There was a dim spark of hope that she might run into him at the fountains in front of the Bellagio, but it was a very dim spark. She sent him another text anyway.

Miranda: Dancing water.

That had to be easy enough. She wasn't sure if he'd show up in front of her family, though. Maybe tonight they could meet for coffee again.

"So, Miranda," Gabriela said as they walked down the sidewalk toward the Bellagio. "I forgot to tell you that I've decided to write a memoir."

That was random. Miranda looked at Julia, who shrugged.

"About your whole life so far?"

"About my mother—every memory I have of her. There was that time she took me to the orange orchard and we found a stray tabby. We kept that cat for fifteen years before it died. My mother loved cats more than anything in the world."

"Oh, I didn't know that," Miranda said, curious. "You hate cats."

"I know! Isn't that funny? We used to fight over that tabby all the time, how its fur would get on everything and I constantly had itchy eyes."

"Well, Mom," Miranda said as they neared the fountain, "I think that's really great—about the memoir. I want to read it when you're done. I want to know what she was like. You've never really talked about her."

"I'm sorry about that," she replied, putting an arm around Miranda's shoulders. "I hope you'll talk about me one day to your own children more than I have about my mother. I feel bad about that now. She and I might not have had the best relationship, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't talk about it. Since those pictures were stolen, I've realized there are other ways I can preserve her."

Miranda slipped her arm around her mother and squeezed as they reached the fountain. "I'll get them back, Mom."

"Hah, nice!" Julia laughed as Michael Jackson's "Billy Jean" started playing. Between the lights and the water shooting up like fireworks against a violet velvet sky, everybody fell silent.

Miranda's phone buzzed halfway through.

Cammie: I saw Ryder today. Ugh! He was with Amber. Can you believe he's still with her? She's a total skank.

Miranda's heart fell as she realized it wasn't Ollie. It was her friend Cammie, who usually only texted her when drama was happening.

She typed back, Eh, who cares about them? I don't miss him at all.

She wanted to say, Oh, and I've met someone new . . . but she wasn't sure if that was entirely true. What exactly was this thing they had going, and why hadn't he messaged her today? Especially when he knew she was leaving the day after tomorrow. Especially when she'd been screwed over by one too many guys. She had to face the possibility that Ollie could be another one, simply because she had taken a chance and opened her heart the tiniest bit. As her history proved, that was always a mistake.

♠

"I wonder what Grammy thought about men and love," Miranda mused as she sat down to breakfast with her family the next morning. Ollie still hadn't contacted her, and she was beginning to worry. Had he gone back to his father? Had the situation escalated into something worse? Or did he want to call it quits and sever ties with her? He had seemed so into her when they'd had coffee together. Maybe she was really bad at reading body language.

"She was not a romantic, if that's what you're wondering," Miranda's mother said as she cut a piece of French toast. The syrup on the top pooled on the white plate between each piece. "She loved my father, yes, but I don't remember her with stars in her eyes, or ever talking about love in a passionate way. It seemed very straightforward and logical for her."

Julia took a big bite of watermelon then a sip of orange juice, making Miranda grimace. "That's kinda sad," she said with her mouth full. "I mean, nothing about me and Gavin is logical."

"No," Miranda teased, "it's all crazy physical passion for you two, isn't it?"

Julia smirked and said, "Mmmmm, yes."

"Just be careful, please," their father said with a growl in his voice.

Miranda speared a piece of cantaloupe with her fork. "I already told her that, Dad. She will be. Right, Julia?"

Julia laughed. "I'm not stupid, you guys. I know all about the birds and bees. Sheesh!"

"As long as you know," their mother sighed. "But mistakes do happen, especially when it comes to that. Understand?"

"Yes, Mom, I do."

"Then we're good."

And that was that. Miranda chuckled to herself and ate the rest of her cantaloupe. It was perfectly ripe. When she was done, she started sipping her coffee and closed her eyes at the memory of drinking coffee with Ollie. She wanted to feel like that again. Excited and . . . illogical. In the past, she had been like her grandmother. Levelheaded. Logical. She'd avoided passion like the plague because she was scared of giving too much of herself away too fast. Then Christian had happened and she'd let herself slip and fall harder than she'd ever fallen before. But not for long. Even before the end of her relationship with him, she'd put her guard back up little by little, letting that logical side of her take over. But why? Why? Julia was passionate with Gavin and still careful . . . so far, anyway.

"Was Grammy happy?" she asked her mother.

Gabriela frowned. "You know what, Miranda?" she said in a droopy voice. "I don't remember her being the happiest person in the world. It's sad when I think about it, but I'm going to face it and write that memoir anyway."

Miranda took her time finishing her coffee then checked her phone once again. No messages. She couldn't even call him. She didn't even know his last name. Maybe if she did a little research she could find out who his father was, and that might lead her to him. Or maybe something as illogical and strange as Ollie was better left behind. She hoped it wasn't. That might break her heart more than anything else . . . and she'd never even kissed him. Not even close.

♠

At the zoo, Miranda texted Lions, Tigers, and Bears __ to Ollie, but he didn't answer. She kept looking around all day to see if she could spot him, but by dinnertime she'd given up completely. It was over, she told herself. She was leaving in the morning, and it was over.

That night, she went to bed with her heart heavier than it had been in a long time. Once their parents were asleep, she rolled over and told Julia everything that had happened. Her sister listened intently, her eyes filling with tears toward the end.

"I can't believe he hasn't even tried to contact you again," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, Miranda. You have the worst luck ever with guys."

"I know. I'm doomed forever."

Julia pulled her covers closer and wet her lips. "I don't know about that. You don't really need a man to make you happy, right? You've got college and stuff."

"Yeah, and who knows what will happen at school. It just pisses me off, you know? Here I was finally getting to an okay place after all that crap with Christian happened, and this guy has to drop into my life. I don't care if he stole stuff. He means well, and I doubt he'll keep doing it." Her eyes went distant and Julia's face turned hazy in her vision. "I know nobody's perfect, but he seemed a lot like me. He didn't want to feel stuck anywhere, and I get that, you know? I thought it might turn into something amazing, that's all. I'm so not like Grammy. I'm logical, but I want to be a romantic."

Julia laughed, and her face came back into focus. "Oh, you're a romantic. You're totally falling all over this guy and you've only known him for, like, three days."

"Yeah," Miranda sighed. "I guess I am."

They talked for another hour and then Miranda went to sleep. She dreamed about a big office building and a shiny black desk. She dreamed about Ollie sitting in a chair at that desk, his expression cold and harsh, and a picture of his tyrannical father hung on the wall in front of him.

♠

The next morning, she packed up her bags. On their way to the airport, she pulled out her phone and sent one last message to Ollie.

Miranda: Airplanes. Last chance.

He didn't answer.

# 4.

Miranda hated to admit it, but she cried the first week away from home. None of her dorm mates seemed homesick. They were all too busy loving their freedom. There were parties and guys and alcohol to keep them distracted. Miranda couldn't seem to enjoy any of it. She called Julia almost every night and told her about her classes, her professors, and her party-crazy dorm mates. Julia listened and sympathized, and then gushed about Gavin. Neither of them mentioned Ollie, although Miranda had to admit she looked at her phone more often than she might have otherwise. He seemed so far away, like a blip in her existence—something bright and shiny and odd she'd found on the sidewalk one afternoon and then lost.

Walking to class, she looked around at the trees changing to orange and red and yellow. No palm trees. No hot, sticky days filled with casinos and hotels. She had to let him go! It was harder to do than she thought it would be because she didn't know what had happened. It was one thing to have a boyfriend tell her things were over and everything ended in a final bang. It was another to have a barely-there relationship drift away from you like a sailboat on the horizon. Once in awhile she thought she might try to find it, but it had been long enough for him to message her again, even if things had escalated with his father.

She was close to her class now. It was in a building across from a pretty fountain she loved to sit near and do her homework sometimes. She rounded the corner and headed into class. Halfway through, her phone buzzed and she smiled because it was probably Julia telling her something about Gavin again. The girl was obsessed with him, and Miranda had to keep telling her that while it was great to be passionate about him, she still had to pay attention to school so she could go to college one day too.

Pulling out her phone, she slid it into her lap and tried to peek at it so her geology professor didn't chew her out and tell her to leave. He hated cell phones in class.

**Unknown:** _Red brick circle._

She almost choked on her wintergreen gum. It couldn't be. It was from a number she didn't recognize. Not restricted. As fast as she could, she typed her response.

**Miranda:** _Do you see palm trees?_

A guy who always sat next to her cleared his throat. When she looked up at him, he nodded at her lap. "You better put that away," he whispered.

She swallowed a lump in her throat and shrugged, as if she had no choice. She really didn't. She had to follow this through. The phone vibrated in her lap.

**Unknown:** _No palm trees right here. Kinda weird._

Breathe in. Breathe out. It was him. He was back. Maybe he was _here._ Red brick circle. What could he be talking about?

_Are you here on campus?_ she typed, getting more impatient by the second.

"Miranda, I asked you a question," Professor King said in a tight-lipped, irritated voice. "Is that a cell phone you're using? Because you know the policy."

She snapped her attention to her professor. He was tall and gangly and his glasses made him look like a studious owl. A skinny owl. It was odd. "Yeah, I guess I'll leave," she said quickly, gathering up her books and notepad. She shoved them into her backpack and stood. "Sorry."

A few people giggled as she left the classroom under Professor King's glare. She knew if he kicked her out more than twice, she would be asked to leave the class permanently. If she left too late in the semester, she'd get a failing grade. It wouldn't happen again, she told herself as she exited the building and stood under the warm sun. A breeze rustled through the autumn leaves, and she breathed it in deeply as she kept staring at her phone.

_You look good today,_ the next message said.

Her heart nearly pounded through her chest. He was here. _Where?_ Then she looked across the road and realized that a circular red brick plaza surrounded the fountain she loved so much. Where was he?

Hurrying across the crosswalk, she rushed past a few students and followed a red brick path to the fountain. There he was, on a bench beneath a shady tree. He was in jeans instead of a suit, and she might not have recognized him if it wasn't for his Las Vegas 51s baseball cap. Her heart continued to thud as she neared him. Finally, she stood in front of him, and he looked up at her with a grin spreading across his face. He was clean-shaven, and she realized she had never actually seen him in natural lighting before. His eyes were a beautiful clear gray, but even more intriguing in the sun. They were filled with something Julia might have described as "moons and stars." He looked like he wanted to throw his arms around her, but he was restraining himself.

"It was really your turn," he said as she stared open-mouthed at him, "but I know you've probably given up on me, so I took a chance."

She wanted to say something, anything, but couldn't manage it. She knew she had missed him, but now that he was in front of her, something felt like it was trying to squeeze her heart into a diamond. She hadn't just missed him. She had mourned the loss of him. She had resigned herself to the fact that she would never see him again, that he had chosen a life he didn't really want, and that if he could make a mistake like that, she might screw up in her life too. It was all so much bigger than she'd wanted it to be.

"You're speechless," he laughed. "I'm so sorry. Can I explain?"

She nodded, and he reached into a leather briefcase beside him on the bench.

"First," he said softly. "Here are your pictures."

She looked down at the thick stack of her grandmother's pictures, still secured with the same rubber band as before.

"Thank you," she croaked, taking them. "My mom will be really glad to get these back. I am too. Thanks."

"No problem. I've got your purse in my car. I can get it for you later. Is that all right?"

She nodded and asked, "What happened, Ollie? It's been two months. I thought I'd never see you again."

He hung his head for a minute and slid his white tennis shoes across the red bricks. "I called my father that next morning after we had coffee. I told him I wanted to talk to him about other options, and he said he was open to figuring something out. Then I told him about the purses and he chewed me out for ten minutes. He said if I wanted to work under him, I had to talk to the police about what I'd done."

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yeah, all the thefts had been reported except yours. I haven't told anyone about yours."

"What did they make you do? Did you have to go to jail?"

He shook his head and laughed. "No, like I told you before, my father wouldn't let that happen. They told me if I could pay for the stolen items, I'd be let off. Of course, I had no money to do that, really. So I had to go back to work for my father and earn the money. That took me a few weeks. My father made sure it was a painful process. He had me cleaning bathrooms at the Bellagio."

She tried to imagine him scrubbing toilets, and smiled. "You could have answered all those messages I sent you. You could have told me a lot sooner what you were doing."

Hanging his head again, he tensed his shoulders. "I didn't think you'd want anything to do with me. My father was breathing down my neck every second, so I decided I should try to move on from you, but then I couldn't stop thinking about you and I decided to do something about it. I remembered what you said about safety and risk. The truth is, I think you're worth a risk." He looked up, hope in his eyes. "You looked happy to see me a minute ago. Are . . . are you?"

She tried to keep a stern frown on her face, but couldn't. Her lips turned upward. "As crazy it sounds, yes, I'm happy to see you."

"Good." He let out a sigh of relief.

"How did you find me?"

"Ah, that. Well, I wrote your sister's number down before I gave your phone back . . ."

"What!" She gritted her teeth, irritated that Julia had talked to him and not told her.

"Yeah, she told me you were going to ECU and you're living in Umstead Hall. I, uh, kind of followed you here to class and thought I'd just send a message and see what happened."

"Uh-huh. Sneaky."

"Your sister also told me if I broke your heart, she'd send her boyfriend after me and he'd cut off my thumbs."

Bursting into laughter, Miranda thought about skinny Gavin brandishing a knife at Ollie. Yeah, right.

"She told me about your other boyfriends," Ollie said quietly. "I'm sorry you've been hurt. I promise if you decide to be with me, I won't hurt you like that."

"Sometimes you can't keep promises."

He looked straight into her eyes with the same laser vision he'd used in the café. "I may have been a thief at one point," he said seriously, "but I always keep my promises."

She looked away, angry with herself for not being able to trust him yet—to trust anyone yet.

His serious expression melted. "So, are you saying you want to try?"

"Maybe . . . but I'm kinda living here in North Carolina and you're all the way in Nevada. Doesn't that make things a little complicated?" She knew, deep down, that this didn't matter in the slightest. She wanted to know if he thought it might.

"Well," he said, standing up from the bench, "I managed to talk my father into letting me get a degree in business, so I'm only working for him on the weekends right now. I don't have classes on Mondays, so I can fly here and see you every week until we get to know each other better. Then you can decide how you want to do this."

She couldn't stop the snort from leaving her nose and mouth. "Fly here? Every Monday?"

He shrugged and mumbled, "My father's paying me enough money to do that."

"Ah, so you are totally rich now." In all honesty, she was shocked more by the thought that he'd go to that much trouble for her than by how much it would cost.

His eyes snapped back to hers. "Not totally. Please don't hate me for not being penniless and desperate anymore."

She didn't know what to say. She caught the faintest smell of sandalwood on him, and took three deep breaths before inching forward. She tried not to look at his lips and think about what it might be like to kiss him. She'd thought enough about it in the past two months to make her sick of it. Now that he was in front of her, she wasn't sick of it at all. She relished it, even if they had nothing figured out yet. It was illogical. It was crazy, and she didn't care.

"I don't hate you," she almost whispered as he took her hands and pulled her closer to him. When had he become comfortable enough to do that with her? It didn't even matter. She swallowed. "I'm just worried you'll be unhappy doing what your father wants."

"I'm wearing him down one tiny thing at a time," he said as she leaned into him. His heart pounded against hers. He looked nervous, as if he expected her to rip away from him any second.

"Well, that's good," she said. "I wouldn't want you to—"

He kissed her, and she kissed him back. His kiss was tender and a little hesitant, and she laughed when she had to tilt her head at a sharp angle so his baseball cap didn't jab her in the forehead. He reached up and turned it backwards.

"I have to catch my flight in a few hours," he said, and ran a finger down her cheek. "What do you want to do until then?"

"Can I get my purse back?" she asked, laughing. It felt so good to feel her body laugh against his. He smiled and let her go. Picking up his leather briefcase, he turned toward one of the exits out of the fountain plaza and looked over his shoulder as he took off running.

"If you can catch me," he laughed, "I'll give it to you."

How had it come to this? How had she fallen in love with the guy who'd stolen her purse? It certainly wasn't something her grandmother would have done. Or maybe it was. The memoir wasn't finished yet, but Miranda looked forward to reading it and seeing how much of her personality was inside those stories. In the meantime, she'd just have to stumble along and figure things out on her own, one step . . . one risk . . . at a time.

She grinned and took off after him, yelling, "You're on!"

This time, she would catch him.

# What Comes Next?

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# BONUS CHAPTERS of The Breakaway

When Naomi Jensen is kidnapped, it takes her parents two days to realize she's missing. Escape isn't high on her list of priorities when all she has to return to is an abusive boyfriend and parents who never paid much attention to her. For the first time in her life she's part of a family—even if it is a family of criminals. But she's still a captive. In a desperate attempt to regain some control in her life, Naomi embarks on a dangerous plan to make one of her kidnappers think she's falling in love with him. The plan works too well, and when faced with the chance to escape, Naomi isn't sure she wants to take it.

## I

February

The kidnapper looking down at Naomi held a book of poetry to his chest. Naomi didn't know what he was doing with the poetry, but it was the first thing that fueled her hope of staying alive.

"I'm Jesse," the man said, and bent down to touch her arm. His hands were small, but she guessed he was stronger than he looked. "How do you feel? Dizzy? Sick?"

She tensed. Why did he care how she felt?

"Not dizzy," she said slowly. Her tongue was dry, and her voice was strange through a faint ringing in her head, like the sound of a muffled bell. "I don't know. I thought I was home. I thought—"

A few things came back; screeching tires, darkness, the smell of leather. Now she felt a flattened, unfamiliar pillow beneath her head. It smelled of dirty hair. She hated that smell, and held her breath. Up until this moment, her life had been simple. Or at least she had thought so. Now it all felt upside-down.

"I won't hurt you if you do what I say," Jesse said, pressing her forearm with his thumb. With his other hand he clutched the book closer, if that was possible. Naomi winced at his touch. She wanted his hand off her, but she didn't dare resist him. The calm side of her brain took over. It told her to stay still, do what she was told, and an opportunity for escape would come later. There was always a chance for things later.

She clutched the bedspread as she looked around. Sunlight peeked through a thin gap in the curtains across the room. There was a patch of blue sky, parked cars. She was in a motel. Her heart picked up pace and it made the ringing in her head louder. What would they do to her here? She didn't want to think about that. She couldn't. She shoved the thought away and focused on the moment.

Jesse curled two more fingers around her arm. "What did you see in the parking lot last night?"

"Parking lot?" She looked into his eyes, hoping she would find an answer. All she found was a beautiful green. It was a striking combination with his short, reddish brown hair. That was unexpected, like the poetry. What kind of a kidnapper read poetry? It was the only thing she could cling to—a delicate flower in the middle of a burned field of weeds.

"You mean the parking lot outside the window?" she asked. She had no clue what he meant by asking her what she had seen. What day was it? Friday? She had gone to school, done her homework, spent most of the night with her boyfriend, Brad. His sheets had smelled like his cologne, so strong she thought he might have spilled the bottle. When she complained, he kissed her. Then he kissed her some more. One thing led to another. She hadn't finished her homework, she realized. They had walked to the park at two in the morning, Brad hauling her camera equipment.

"Think," Jesse urged. "I need to know what you remember. Try, please."

Why didn't he just leave her alone? She didn't want to talk or think. She touched the base of her skull. A tender wound. Red flakes on her fingers. Her head must have hit something hard. She blinked and scrambled to sit up, groaning as pain shot through her arms and legs. Aching bruises everywhere. None of them hurt as badly as the one on her face. She knew what had caused that one.

Jesse backed away when she let out a cry and fell back to the pillows. "What happened to me?" she whimpered. "What did you do to me?" She craned her neck to find the motel door. It was across from the bed, begging her to run.

"Tell me what you remember." He was starting to look angry.

She didn't remember anything! She should be in a hospital, or at least her own bedroom. She should be in Brad's arms. His bed was familiar, his embrace comforting and protective, until last night. No, it was earlier. She lifted a hand to her left cheek. She still couldn't believe he had done it.

"Start talking," Jesse ordered. He was obviously losing patience. Naomi looked up, frantically searching her mind for one scrap of memory. Would he hurt her if she didn't come up with something right this second? She kept her mind focused on the poetry. A strange side. A soft side.

"The park," she said, remembering a grove of black eucalyptus trees, misty through a veil of fog. Brad leaning against a tree with his hands pushed into his pockets. "I was taking pictures."

She remembered squinting through the lens of her camera, deciding what exposure she should set to capture the fog rolling through the grove. "I wanted to go home, so I cut through the parking lot."

"And?"

Garbage dumpsters loomed through the fog. Out of nowhere, a set of blurry, yellow lights slammed into her.

"A car."

"What kind of car?" His voice was more urgent.

"I don't know. I just remember the lights. I–I was hit, wasn't I?"

"You're certain that's all you saw? No license plate? No make or model of the car? Nothing else?"

"Nothing." She glanced at the book. Seamus Heaney, a poet she had studied last month in her advanced English class. That was weird. Nothing about this seemed right. She wanted to curl up and hide, but instead she looked at Jesse's face. The stubble across his jaw was a deeper red than his hair. He was dirty and messy, not much older than her, maybe in his twenties. Rough. Dangerous. Not like somebody who read poetry.

"You like to read?" he asked.

She clamped her lips together, darting her attention to the door. He was distracted. This was her chance.

Scrambling off the bed, she ignored her pain and ran to the door. Her body was fluid and strong, her mind instantly focused. She reached for the handle, but Jesse was too fast. He knocked her to the floor so hard she yelled out. The scratchy rug reeked of cigarette smoke.

"Damn it! I said I didn't want to hurt you!" He gripped her shoulders and pulled her to her feet, his hands surprisingly gentle compared to how rough she expected a kidnapper to be. She focused on the door, feeling her knees give out as she strained to pull away.

"Let. Me. Go!" Her voice came out louder than she thought. Her throat swelled like it was filled with cotton.

Wrapping her in an embrace, Jesse kept her upright. His chest smelled of stale cologne and sweat. It was similar to Brad's smell after he finished working out at the gym, and she almost gagged with the realization that she might never see him again. Or maybe it was something else. That smell could make her do anything she was told.

"Let you go? No, no, we can't do that." He steered her to the bed, but she didn't fight. She couldn't. She was limp and heavy like a wet towel that would never dry. "Stay here on the bed." He helped her lie down on the flower-patterned blanket and picked up his poetry book that he had dropped. "Eric will kill you if you try to run again."

Kill her? He hadn't said it sarcastically, and she believed him. A smudge of dried blood stained the pillow. She held her breath as she rested her cheek on it. Jesse sat on the opposite bed to watch her. She fought the desperate urge to curl into a ball and cry, but it was too late. Tears were already forming. A cold burst of air from across the room made her jump. The door closed. Oh, crap. __ That was probably Eric.

"Is she awake?"

Jesse nodded as a man walked between the beds. His jeans were dirty and wrinkled around the knees.

"She doesn't remember anything, Eric. It looks like this was all for nothing."

"What?" Eric leaned down to look her in the face. He had dark brown eyes. His mouth was drawn into a taut line. "Sit up."

She obeyed and squeezed her knees to her chest. He was older than Jesse. She guessed maybe forty. The oddest thing of all was how nice he looked, almost handsome. He was clean-cut except for the black scruff on his jaw. His thick, carefully shaped sideburns were knifelike.

"What did you see in the parking lot?" he asked.

It was hard to make her voice come out. She was sure he wanted a specific answer. He wanted her to say something about the car and the headlights.

"I don't remember very much," she said and looked up just as his fist met her cheek. She hadn't expected that.

"You don't have to hit her!" she heard Jesse yell as her head collided with the headboard. She kept the scream bundled inside her throat. If she let it out he would hit her again, she was sure of it.

"You said you wouldn't hurt her." Jesse glared at Eric.

"Shut up."

Naomi pressed two fingers to her numb cheek. Her face felt broken. She couldn't tell if she was crying. She had to stay calm and give them what they wanted. That was the only way out of this mess. If there was a way out without getting herself killed.

"Like hell, you don't remember." Eric curled his upper lip into a snarl. "Even if you don't, it doesn't matter now. You've seen us." He pulled her off the bed, past Jesse, and into the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" Jesse asked.

Eric glanced down at the poetry still gripped in Jesse's hand. "Ditch the damn book and help me out. Go get the scissors." He wrapped a cold hand around Naomi's neck and leaned her over the sink with a fierce shove. Her tears dropped into the porcelain sink. She was crying. Great. So much for staying brave. Of course, she had never thought of herself as particularly brave. This was not a situation in which she would shine.

Her lip was bleeding, turning her tears pink as they slipped down the drain. She wondered why these men didn't just kill her. Not that she wanted them to, but keeping her alive meant they were going to do something with her, and that was what she didn't want to think about in any amount of detail.

"Here." Jesse stepped into the bathroom and handed Eric a pair of office scissors, the kind with the bright orange handle. Her dad had a pair of those in his office. She remembered cutting her own hair with them when she was six. Her nanny had spanked her so hard she couldn't sit down for the rest of the day.

Eric snatched the scissors from Jesse and pushed her head down farther. He parted her hair in the middle. It was so long it coiled into the basin of the sink like two golden snakes. She stared at it, somewhat relieved. At least he wasn't planning on stabbing her. She hoped. She repeated the same phrase in her head over and over—stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. Her body relaxed.

"Don't," Eric said when her knees wobbled and her body went limp. He shoved her against the counter before she fell over.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled into the sink. The little resolve she had left was unraveling quickly, and she couldn't tie it back together fast enough. All she wanted to do was curl up into a ball and cry.

He finished the first section in four strokes and moved to the other side. He yanked. He tugged. He had obviously never cut hair before. When he gripped her shoulders and forced her to straighten, she stared at herself.

Her hair was gone. He had cut it a few inches above her shoulders. She gripped the counter so hard she thought her fingers might break. What was this? Why? Why any of this?

"Take off your sweater."

After wiping the last of the blood from her lips, she pulled off her hoodie. It was the one Brad had bought her at the mall a year ago. She handed it over, hoping he wouldn't ask her to take off anything else. She would freak out if he did. If Brad ever met this man, he would break his neck.

"Take your earrings out."

She lifted a hand to her ear. "Why?"

"Because I said so, that's why." He leaned forward as he spit the words at her.

The earrings were a Christmas gift from her parents. Or what they wanted to call a gift, taking her to the jewelry store two days before the holiday to pick them out. Two diamond studs, a full carat each. Had she been kidnapped for ransom? Her parents had a lot of money, but that didn't seem to be what these men wanted.

Eric slipped the earrings into his pocket. "It would be a hell of a lot easier to kill you, but I don't want to do that if I don't have to." He shrugged. "It's your choice. If you try to escape, I'll kill you. If you want to live, stay with us and do exactly what we say."

She took a step back.

"You're not a fighter," he said, rubbing the knuckles of the hand he had hit her with. "That's good."

The rest of her strength unraveled as she realized the truth of what he said. Of course she wasn't a fighter. If she was, she would have kicked him in the balls by now, or slammed her elbow into his stomach, or bitten his arm. Anything but do whatever he said. She lowered her eyes.

He filled a plastic cup with water and set two pills on the counter. "Take those."

They were blue and round, bitter and tart on her tongue as she swallowed them. She convinced herself they were only to make her sleep because she didn't have any will left to resist. She took another step back and glanced at the toilet. She needed to pee.

"You need to go?"

She nodded, and when he didn't move she realized he was going to stay there the whole time. He cleared his throat and turned around.

Could she do this? She had to.

Unzipping her pants, she pulled them down and sat on the toilet, her face growing hotter by the second. Her urine hitting the water was the loudest, most embarrassing sound she had ever heard. She squeezed her eyes shut. She felt naked. The only person who had ever seen her naked outside of childhood was Brad, and now this idiot man could turn around and watch her pee and there was nothing she could do about it. Where was Brad? What had happened? Why was going to the bathroom taking so long? At least the man wasn't watching. His name was Eric. Was it wrong to think of him by his name? How long would she have to do that?

Finally, she finished. "I'm done," she said after zipping up her jeans. She flushed the toilet.

He led her back to the bed. "Lie down and stay quiet." He watched her crawl under the blankets and curl into a ball.

On the other bed, Jesse looked up from his book. Naomi closed her eyes and turned away from him before she could decide if his compassionate expression was well-intentioned or not. At least they hadn't tied her up, but what would they do to her once she was asleep? She hugged herself and breathed slowly for what seemed like hours. Blank slate. She had to push her mind somewhere safe, somewhere empty. Then the men started to talk.

"How much did you get?" Jesse asked.

"Three-fifty. Better than we thought. Your friend says there's a push for gold overseas. We'll head home tonight once the pills knock her out."

Their words were starting to slur and fade in her head. Great. Why now when she could maybe pick up something useful from their conversation? She probably wouldn't remember any of this. Stupid pills. She should have pretended to swallow them, but a part of her wanted to fade away and never wake up.

"Did they get everything ready? You're sure you want to go through with this?"

"Of course I'm sure. I left the choice up to Evie, and this is what she wants. It'll work out. It's my own damn fault. I didn't see her in all that fog until it was too late, and who the hell knows if she's telling the truth?" He cleared his throat and it sounded like a train wreck inside her head through whatever drugs he had given her. "We'll need to clean up in here before we leave. Fingerprints, hair, everything. We can't leave anything behind. She's all over the news now. Is she out yet?"

A hand touched her arm. Her body jerked, but she couldn't open her eyes.

"Getting there."

The hand lingered on her elbow, warm and pressing. It slid up her skin, a gentle, trembling stroke. Then it was gone.

## II

Karen Jensen loved her office. She loved the thick, leather-bound law volumes lined neatly on the bookshelves. She loved the smell of coffee from down the hall. She especially loved the windows behind her desk overlooking the city and the ocean beyond that. It was often dark when she left for work early in the morning and always dark when she went home late at night. Traffic moved down below, but she was so far removed from it that it couldn't possibly bother her. Anna, her secretary, always let her know ahead of time if there was an accident or construction and which route would get her home fastest. Anna was a lifesaver.

This morning as Karen entered her office and flipped on the light, she sensed something was wrong. Anna had already arrived. That was odd; she usually didn't show up until nine. Karen glanced at her watch. It was only eight. She peeked into the adjoining office where Anna was hunched over her desk, one hand supporting her chin as she drowsed in front of her computer monitor.

"Anna, what are you doing?"

The girl jumped and spun around in her chair. "Karen!"

Anna was twenty-eight, thin, alert, and quirky—a breath of fresh air every time Karen looked at her. The girl could talk faster than a spinning top, but Karen liked that. She liked her wildly curly, chestnut-brown hair and dramatic hazel eyes that flickered about like two moths trying to find their way out of a room.

Today, however, Anna looked anything but quirky. Dark circles sagged underneath her eyes. Her hair was limp.

"Karen," she repeated, and rolled her chair back from her desk. Her face drained of color as if she was seeing a ghost. "What are you doing here? I thought you wouldn't come back for weeks, or until Naomi is found. I thought—"

"Forget what you thought." Karen waved her hand. "There's nothing I can do about Naomi right now. The detectives are on the case. The press is having a field day, and I've got clients with cases that aren't going to wait just because I have a personal crisis going on in the background. I already missed yesterday."

"Personal crisis?"

"Yes, isn't that what this is?"

Anna blinked. "Yes, and you should be home."

"Doing what? Crying? Fretting? What is _that_ going to solve? Anna, be realistic for two seconds."

Karen straightened her shoulders and tried to force her thoughts away from yesterday morning when Brad had shown up just before breakfast. Naomi was missing. She had been missing for two days, but Brad was too afraid to tell anyone he couldn't find her. He had stood on the front porch with his hands shoved into his pockets, his blond hair falling in his eyes as he confessed that he had hit Naomi in the face the night before she disappeared, and maybe that's why she was gone. Karen knew her husband, Jason, would likely scream at the boy for ten minutes if he heard such a confession, so she kept that quiet when he arrived home to a house full of police officers asking questions. But it all came out later, anyway.

"I _am_ being realistic." Anna's voice interrupted her thoughts.

So much for not thinking about yesterday. Karen gave Anna a cold look and headed for her desk. She didn't have time for this. She sat in her chair and looked up at Anna, who seemed to be fighting the urge to put on the crusty glare usually reserved for her ex-boyfriend when he called her at work.

"Anna," she said in a calm voice, smoothing the wrinkles out of her blouse and adjusting her pearl necklace. "The police are trying to find Naomi. Nothing more can be done right now. We spent yesterday searching our area with the police, and I've hired my own private detective to work with them as well. I've seen enough in the courtroom to know how pointless it is for me to get involved with the investigation right now. I'd only be a nuisance. This early on she could show up any second. She's almost eighteen, and she only wants to exert her independence. I'm sure that's all this is."

Anna folded her arms. "The first few days of a missing person case are the most important, and what do you mean it's pointless for you to get involved? You're her mother."

"Yes, I'm her very busy mother with five clients scheduled today." She glanced at her watch. "And I'm due in the courtroom in three hours. Very important people depend on me, Anna." She gave Anna a look that clearly said _let it go,_ then jabbed the power button on the computer. "I sure hope you kept on top of things yesterday."

"Oh sure, I kept on top of things." Anna unfolded her arms and spun on her heel, disappearing into her own office. "I went through your emails," she called out as she sat down at her desk where Karen could only see her back. "I sorted through your voicemails; there were a lot of messages from people concerned about Naomi, and one from your sister, Elizabeth. Doesn't she have your cell number?"

"Nobody has my cell number except for you and Jason. You know all my other calls are forwarded from here."

"Not even Naomi?" Anna spun around in her chair, and it was then that Karen noticed her wrinkled clothes and the misplaced pillows on the leather sofa across the room.

"No, not even Naomi."

"What if she needs you? How can she get a hold of you if she doesn't have your number?"

"Naomi never needs me. Did you sleep here last night?"

Anna blinked.

"Anna?"

"Yes, I did."

"Why would you sleep here?"

Her face turned scarlet as she stood from her chair. "Why wouldn't I sleep here? I only had people and reporters coming in here every five seconds yesterday asking about you. I only tried to call your phone five billion times. I only sat here worried sick ever since they announced on the news that there was a robbery the night she disappeared _three blocks_ from your house. What if someone took her, Karen? That's what they're saying. You and your husband are two of the most prominent people in this city, and you're hiding her under the rug."

Karen closed her eyes and forced her mind back to a calm place. She was starting to come undone, and she couldn't let that happen. A woman in her position had to stay strong. Her career depended on it. She wasn't showing remorse or guilt or anything over Naomi, and that obviously bothered Anna. The problem was that Anna couldn't possibly understand how her relationship with Naomi worked. She opened her eyes and stood.

"I'm going to go get some coffee."

"But I always get your coffee."

"Not today."

Karen marched out of the office as she rubbed a finger between her eyes. Was this how everyone was going to react? Shocked at her behavior? The reporters were already camping out near the house. It was only a matter of time before they realized she had snuck away to come to work. They would be here by afternoon pestering her with questions. Jason would have it even worse. He was the CEO of one of the largest companies in the western United States.

She snatched a mug from a cupboard and filled it with coffee. She needed it badly today. Jason had kept her up all night worrying about Naomi. He wondered if he should go back to work, if he should try to help search for her more than he already had, if it was his fault she was gone. Which was ridiculous. She was almost eighteen. When Karen was that age, she had left her family, excited to start her own life away from what was barely a home. She could still smell the burnt macaroni and cheese her sister had tried to make in the kitchen of their trashy trailer and the greasy hamburgers her father grilled outside every weekend until the snow fell. Her mother had worked at a factory, and whenever she came home she plopped herself onto the lumpy couch and chain smoked until Karen had to go outside so she could breathe. The only refuge was school. On her ceiling she had taped a poster of Harvard. One day she would go there and graduate and live in a big, clean house by the ocean.

"And that's exactly what I did," she mumbled into her coffee. She marched back to her office and sat down. Anna was still at her desk.

"I know what you're thinking," Karen said, causing Anna to turn around to look at her.

"What am I thinking?"

"That I'm a terrible person for reacting this way."

"That's not what I—"

Karen held up a hand. "Everybody will think that, but they're wrong. They don't understand the pressures Jason and I deal with—what we have to maintain in the public eye. I've given Naomi everything I never had. If she's anything like me, she's not in any danger. She just needed some space. Her boyfriend hit her, and she probably thinks running away for a little while will teach him a lesson. She'll come back in a few days."

Anna turned back to her computer. "Seems like she had plenty of space before."

That wasn't worth answering. Karen couldn't believe she was wasting her time arguing with Anna. There was too much to do today. She stared at her email inbox and blinked as the screen turned fuzzy. Lack of sleep, that was all. She swiveled her chair to face the windows behind her as the caffeine from her coffee seeped into her system. The ocean was calm beyond the city, just like her. She would stay calm. Even if Naomi was truly in danger, showing the public her fear and insecurities would not help anyone. Nobody could understand her relationship with Naomi. It was like a flower trying to bloom. If someone disturbed it, it would die, just like her broken relationship with her own mother had died. She wouldn't let that happen, especially from reporters trying to pry into her life.

Taking a sip of her coffee, she turned back to her computer.

## III

The air smelled like bacon. Naomi kept her eyes closed as sunlight warmed her face. She was comfortable beneath a heavy quilt. Turning, she snuggled her cheek into a fluffy pillow.

Wait a minute.

The motel room. The book of poetry.

She sat up, her heart hammering. The room was mostly empty and definitely not a motel room. There was a four-poster bed, a nightstand, a dresser. The door was dead bolted from the other side. There was a bathroom and a walk-in closet with clothes on hangers.

She wasn't dreaming. She couldn't be dreaming with this much pain. She touched the ends of her short hair as tears sprang to her eyes. She blinked them away. She had to think and keep a level head. First of all, where was she? Was she safe, or seconds away from danger?

She lifted the quilt from her body and stared at her bare feet. They had taken her shoes off, and she couldn't see them anywhere. She touched her lip. No blood. The split had closed. __ The wound at the base of her skull throbbed, but it was clean and healing over. They had taken care of her, and that frightened her more than anything else. She swallowed. Her throat was parched.

Trembling, she got out of bed and entered the bathroom where she leaned over the sink and drank straight from the tap. The water sloshing in her stomach, she straightened to look at herself in the mirror. She wasn't about to flip on the light to see more of the terrified girl staring back at her. She looked terrible. Her hair was uneven and serrated, not even fit for a punk star.

She peeked inside two shopping bags on the counter. Toothbrush and toothpaste, floss, a brush and comb, soap and shampoo. Even underwear. Her size.

She raced out of the bathroom to the window by the bed and pulled back the curtain. There was hard packed snow on the ground. The bedroom was on the second floor of a house facing a quiet street. Ancient maple and pine trees dotted the neighborhood of fancy houses and landscaped yards. Her fingers brushed across the window sill and she nearly jumped at what she saw. Someone had installed a lock on the outside. Why bother? Even if she managed to get out, the fall would break a leg or an arm.

So they wanted to keep her here like a caged animal.

Yeah, right.

Running to the door, she yanked on the handle. Locked. She threw herself at it, pounded, kicked, but didn't yell. She was already dizzy. White stars exploded before her eyes. She blinked and shook her head. More stars. Blackness. Her knees were suddenly Jell-O. She was going to crumple in a heap on the floor if she didn't make it back to the bed in time. All she needed was to lie down. Two seconds.

Finally, she made her way back to the bed and crawled under the warm blankets. Her stomach tightened. Hunger. That explained the stars, the exhaustion, and the ache in her stomach. She hadn't eaten in days. Maybe she would give up for now.

A clock near the bathroom showed that it was five. She focused on the second hand ticking its way around, around, around. She closed her eyes and saw two yellow lights speeding toward her. No time to run. No time to do anything but widen her eyes in the foggy darkness. An explosion ripped through her lungs as her feet flew out from under her. Gritty tar and gravel, slamming doors and panicked voices, breaths on her face. She was lifted up into nothing.

* * *

A hand brushed across Naomi's forehead and she opened her eyes. It wasn't Jesse or Eric, but a woman.

"Hello," the woman said with a sweet smile. "I'm Evelyn."

Naomi backed away and sat up. The sunlight shining through the windows was heavier than before. Evelyn blinked as the rich glow shifted across her face. She looked a lot like Eric—same clear olive complexion, angled cheekbones, and dark hair. Hers was in loose ringlets falling to her shoulders. Her lips were pretty, a deep red. She was sitting on the edge of the bed and leaned forward.

"Are you all right? Can I get you anything? I brought you some food. Eric said you haven't eaten for days."

She gritted her teeth. "He never gave me any food." Her voice was weak and frail. It felt strange to speak. She should probably keep her mouth shut in some sort of defense, but Evelyn wasn't threatening in any way and the words flowed to the tip of her tongue. "He gave me pills."

Evelyn sighed. "He thought rest was more important for you. We didn't want you dying or anything."

Naomi didn't know if she should laugh or be horrified. Why would these people care if she died? They wanted her to keep her mouth shut about whatever they thought she had seen. Dying would take care of that. Why waste the energy keeping her locked up like this?

Evelyn pointed to a sandwich and glass of milk on the nightstand. "Go ahead and eat, but take it slow or it might come right back up. Do you want me to leave?"

She snatched the plate with shaky hands. Bacon, lettuce, and tomato, something Brad had made her once. She sank her teeth into it, and a small groan escaped her throat.

"I'm glad you like it."

Naomi hardly heard her. The sandwich was so good.

Evelyn stood. "I want to cut your hair. It looks terrible. I'm sorry he . . ." She chewed on her lip, blinking as she looked at the floor. "Eric is my brother. He didn't have any choice but to take you." She glanced at the door. "I'll be back in the morning."

She left the room in a hurry, the locks turning in place as Naomi looked down at her sandwich. It was the best food she had ever tasted.

* * *

An intense, pounding headache and spells of stomach cramps plagued her most of the night. After deciding it was because of the food, she wished she had heeded Evelyn's advice and eaten more slowly.

Now she tossed and turned beneath the blankets, repeatedly waking in a cold sweat until she looked at the clock for the hundredth time, saw that it was six in the morning, and realized her headache was finally gone.

She heard muffled voices. Doors opened and closed, and the faint hum of a hairdryer drifted through the far right wall. One of her kidnapper's bedrooms was next to hers, but what were they doing awake at six o'clock in the morning?

She could pound on the door again.

No, she felt too sick. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so crappy. Her nannies always took such good care of her when she was sick as a kid. They never let it get too bad.

The air was missing something. She was used to the sounds of crashing waves and screeching gulls. She longed for those sounds now, the smell of salt in the air when she woke up every morning to the brisk commotion of her parents getting ready for work. They woke up at six every morning, but they had jobs. Did her kidnappers work like normal people? It was so weird to think of them that way, but as the clock ticked through the darkness, she heard them passing her door, talking and clearing their throats as if nothing was wrong. Downstairs, dishes clattered, cupboard doors closed. Faint voices, laughter, the smell of coffee. All the voices sounded male except for Evelyn's smooth tones.

The minutes ticked by, each one building up the nervous tension inside her until she finally slipped out of the bed and rushed into the bathroom.

"Good thing there's a lock," she grumbled and switched on the light. She pressed both of her palms to her forehead and looked at herself in the mirror. She needed to think, to feel safe for two minutes _._ She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall.

Think. Think.

They thought she had seen something. She hadn't, but they weren't going to let her go now. It was obvious they were going to keep her here until . . . until what? She groaned and dug her fingernails into her scalp. Whatever happened, she had to play by their rules until she could figure something out. Eric would kill her if she made one wrong move. She believed that with every fiber of her being. She had to obey.

For now.

She left the bathroom to search through the clothes in the closet. Jeans, long-sleeved shirts, sweaters, even a pair of cotton pants and a camisole to sleep in. They were all brand-new, the correct sizes, and clean. The smell of her own dirty body was getting on her nerves. She could at least take a shower before Evelyn came to cut her hair. She snatched a change of clothes.

Something urgent nagged at the back of her mind as she locked herself in the bathroom. Were the clothes kindness? The food Evelyn had brought her? The promise to cut her hair? It felt like kindness.

* * *

She peeked around the shower curtain every ten seconds to make sure the door was still locked. It felt good to stand under the water. The steam drifted around her like fog, and she thought of the banquet she and Brad went to the night she was taken. That night had ended in fog.

It was one of the few banquets she had attended for her father's company. He was the CEO. The press liked to take pictures, and her parents liked to be in the pictures. It would look strange if they didn't have their daughter with them when everybody else brought their older children to show them off like trophies.

She shook her head in awe as she and Brad entered the banquet hall decorated in blue and white roses. She didn't know blue roses existed, but apparently they did.

"Good thing you wore a blue tie," she mumbled as Brad's fingers closed around her hand. She thought of his knuckles slamming against her cheek the night before and almost pulled away as he squeezed her fingers and smiled. He looked at the spot on her cheek—right where she had caked make-up over the bruise.

He had been nothing but gentle and loving the entire day, but she was still annoyed with herself for forgiving him so quickly. It had only taken him ten minutes of tender apologizing for her to speak to him again. She finally yanked her hand away once they found her parents' empty table.

"So you think the food will be good?" he asked as he pulled out a chair and sat down next to her.

"It usually is."

The room was packed with over-dressed men and women. It was loud with what she liked to call corporate talk—things her father was always saying that made no sense to her. She didn't care, either. The only reason she was there, she reminded herself, was because they had basically ordered her to come. People found their seats, and after a few minutes the room fell silent.

"You look amazing, by the way," Brad whispered into her ear. His hand inched to her hip and slid across her lap. He nibbled at her ear when she leaned into him because she knew that's what he wanted.

Lowering her eyes, she stared at the straw-yellow satin that rippled against her legs when she walked. Brad slid his other hand across her bare shoulder blades, and she fought back a wave of tears. If she cried, the tears would wash away her makeup and reveal her bruise.

"Where are your parents?"

She lifted her eyes, folded her arms, and nodded toward the front. "Where they always are at these things—up there. We'll be lucky if they ever make it down here."

She was crying now, in the shower, still surrounded by steam. She didn't want to cry, but she was kidnapped. What else could she do? She was supposed to cry, fight, scream, panic. That's what all the books and movies showed. But now, as she faced the reality of where she was, those reactions seemed stupid inside her head. She didn't feel like crying. She felt numb, and that made the tears go away.

She turned off the water and leaned her shoulders against the dark stone tiles. The room was steamy and hot, but the tile was still cool and sent goose bumps down her body. She sucked in her breath and savored the rush of awareness.

Someone opened the bedroom door just as she stepped out of the tub. She snatched a towel from the rack and wrapped it around herself.

"Naomi?" Evelyn voiced through the door. "Are you all right?"

Her stomach fluttered. None of them had said her name before. It was strange. Too personal. It made her cold all over as water slid down her legs and formed little pools around her toes.

"I'm . . ." Her voice was hoarse and quiet. She cleared her throat. "I took a shower."

Silence, a few movements. "That's fine. Open the door when you're finished so I can cut your hair. Hurry if you can, okay?"

She didn't answer. She had no idea what to say to her kidnappers any time they spoke to her. If anything, she felt stupid and embarrassed. She should have taken a different way home. She should have screamed and fought back in the motel room so Eric would have killed her. That way they wouldn't have to worry about her and go to all this trouble. She wasn't worth so much worrying. It was ridiculous. If only they would let her go. She didn't care about what they had done that night.

Slipping into her new clothes, she towel-dried her hair as much as she could before unlocking the door.

Evelyn had a barstool and small bag in her arms. She gave Naomi a brief smile and set the barstool in front of the mirror, then opened the bag and spread out a handful of haircutting supplies. Naomi sat down and watched her wipe off the foggy mirror.

"Is this all right with you—cutting your hair?" Evelyn asked, adjusting her white silk blouse on her perfect frame.

Naomi tried to keep her expression neutral. For some reason anger was surging through her. "I guess so."

"Okay, then." She ran the comb through Naomi's hair and stopped near the wound at the back of her head. Stroke after stroke, she gently worked through the snarls, then took a pair of scissors from the counter and started cutting.

Her hands were quick as she worked. She tilted Naomi's head, measured the hair on both sides with her fingers, and checked her work in the mirror with swift, thoughtful glances. After two minutes, Naomi was sure she was a professional hairstylist. For some stupid reason, that made her relax.

"It'll be short," Evelyn said after a few minutes. "I'm sorry."

Naomi let no emotion show on her face. She focused on Evelyn's hair, long and twisted in spirals down past her shoulders, like tumbling black water. She was so graceful and elegant, like a supermodel.

Except for the scar.

Naomi widened her eyes. She hadn't seen it before—a long, thin groove on the left side of Evelyn's face. It was barely visible beneath her perfectly applied makeup, but Naomi could see she took great pains to cover it up. It started at the top of her ear, ran down across her cheek, and stopped near the edge of her mouth.

Evelyn cleared her throat. "You look a lot like your mother."

Her mother? No, she didn't. She looked at her own reflection and frowned. How did Evelyn know what her mother looked like?

"I've seen her on the news reports." Evelyn shook her head and coughed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't say things like that to you. I'm always saying things I shouldn't."

"It's all right."

"No, it's not." She took a clip from the counter, and Naomi caught a glimpse of a wedding ring on her finger—a large diamond and two deep red rubies. "You must think we're horrible, terrible people."

Yeah, just a bit.

Evelyn lifted the clip and twisted some of Naomi's hair to fasten it out of the way. She started cutting again. "I can't believe how calm you are—except for your kicking and banging on the door yesterday afternoon. We expected that."

So they had heard her and were okay with it. Maybe.

Evelyn narrowed her eyes. "I don't recommend any more of that kind of behavior. Eric doesn't like it. He said you haven't tried to get away, and it should stay that way." She softened her expression. "But if it were me, well, you're—"

"I didn't see anything," she interrupted, unable to hold back any longer. She gripped the edges of the barstool. "I don't know why you're keeping me here. Wouldn't it be easier to let me go? I won't say anything. I don't care about whatever it is you're trying to hide."

"No!"

The scissors snipped shut.

"Don't ask things like that. We can't let you go now that you're here. You've seen too much. Eric told me you had to come here or he'd have to kill you. That's how things are." She glanced at the watch on her wrist. "I'm almost done. Just a few more minutes or I'll be late for work. It's Wednesday. There's always a time crunch on Wednesdays."

So they had jobs for sure. Would she be left alone in the house? Were they so confident in keeping her locked inside the room? Not that she saw any possible way out short of tearing down a wall, and it wasn't like she had strength for that.

When Evelyn finished cutting, she combed through the hair framed around Naomi's jaw line. It looked better than Eric's haircut, at least.

Evelyn smiled. "I like it, but Eric might have me dye it. We'll see." She glanced at her watch again, then at the floor where hair was scattered across the tile. "I have to go, but I'll clean this up when I get home. I left you some fruit and a glass of milk on the dresser."

Naomi brushed the damp clumps of hair from her shoulders and chest, then stood and followed Evelyn out of the bathroom.

"Do you like milk?" she asked, turning to Naomi before opening the door. "You drank it before, but would you rather have something else? Orange juice? Coffee? We like coffee in the morning."

"Milk is fine."

A sigh that sounded relieved. "Thank you for being so calm. Eric told me you would do what I asked, but I wasn't sure what he meant until now." She opened the door and twitched her mouth into a nervous smile before leaving the room.

When the locks clicked into place, Naomi hurried to the window where she could keep an eye on the driveway. Ten minutes passed before a sleek, black sedan with tinted windows pulled out of the garage, followed by a small, fire-red sports car driven by Evelyn.

Naomi tried to read the license plates, but was too high up to see anything helpful. Utah or Colorado? Idaho or Wyoming? It didn't matter.

She ran her gaze along the horizon, following the mountains in the distance. She had never seen such sharp mountains before, at least not outside her own window. She was used to the smooth, flat lines of the ocean stretching on forever.

* * *

That night she dreamed of dragons and fairies. She sat at the edge of a cliff as storm clouds rolled across a deep valley filled with fire. Dragons circled the destruction, their wings transparent in the bright glow below them. When they shrieked, she covered her ears and fell off the edge of the cliff, her own screams matching the dragon-cries. Fairies flew in to rescue her, but their strength was insufficient. They wept when she landed on the rocks and broke in two like a china doll.

Later, a handsome, leather-clad man rode up on a horse, his battered, blood-stained sword glinting in the fire's glow. He was too late to rescue her, and before she could warn him, a dragon flew above him and breathed a jet of flame, burning him to ashes. She wept as the failed hero crumbled before her eyes.

With a start, she sat up in bed, breathing hard. It was midnight. Clouds covered the moon. The only light came from the lamps on the street. Slowly, she lay back down and tried to get her mind off the image of her face cracked in half. The quiet bedroom was better than a burning valley ridden with dragons. Besides, her kidnappers were not hurting her, so why was her subconscious panicking?

She groaned and rolled over to discover her pillow was wet with tears. She hit the pillow with her fist. She had to get a grip on her emotions before they took over. Then again, she remembered that dealing with things inside your head could help you deal with everything outside. Wasn't that Psych 101? That had to be what her mind was doing.

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and relaxed her body, trying to imagine herself melting away. The dragons came back, but this time they had settled on the rocks to quietly watch the burning valley.

It was then that she heard the locks on her door twisting open. She froze, as tense as if a dragon was breathing down her neck.

"I have to see her again." Evelyn's hushed whisper floated across the room.

"Don't wake her up, then." Another whisper, a male's voice, not Jesse's or Eric's. How many of them lived in the house?

"I won't. She's been quiet for hours, the poor thing. She's out cold, like always."

"She's still adjusting. She shuts down. It will be months before she accepts any of this." They stopped right by the bed. She could hear their breathing, feel their presence. She had no idea what they wanted, but she wasn't about to let them know she was awake.

"She's absolutely perfect," Evelyn said with a catch in her voice. "Every time I look at her I think she's more than I could have asked for."

"That's not why Eric took her, Evie."

"I know, I know, but look at her."

Silence. What were they doing? Just staring? Her back was to them. She didn't dare move. She tried to make her breathing slow and heavy as if she was asleep. They were buying it.

"You have to decide, Evie. We're not risking any of this shit for nothing."

"I already told you I could never live with myself if we hurt her. Never."

"It's settled, then, but you know the risks if she tries anything."

"I know." Her voice was weighted. A tinge of doubt flecked her words.

"You've got to wake up early," the man said, and they moved away slowly, as if they were still staring. She had the sick feeling this wasn't the first time they had come into her room to look at her while she slept.

## IV

Naomi tried not to think about the last time she had eaten or the last time she had talked to Evelyn or any of her kidnappers. Evelyn had said she would come back, but never did, unless she counted the creepy night-watching thing. The night had passed, then morning, and now it was evening again. She thought about pounding on the door again, but remembered Evelyn's warning.

She suffered as quietly as she could, curled on the bed, holding her stomach and groaning. The rancid aroma of old banana peel hung in the air, along with the rotting apple core and pit of an overripe plum. She had buried it all in the bathroom trash can beneath wads of toilet paper and the plastic bags she had emptied the previous day. She even shut the door, collapsed onto the bed, and turned to face the other wall, but she could still smell it.

It was unbearable. Did they want __ to starve her to death? If not, then they were going to drive her crazy by leaving her alone with nothing to do except exist in her crazy mind filled with other worlds scarier than this one.

She had caught sight of Eric only an hour earlier. He parked the black sedan in the driveway and stepped out with a quick glance at her window. He most likely saw her standing half-hidden behind the folds of the sheer curtain, her eyes red from crying.

He didn't exhibit any signs of acknowledgment as he ran his gaze across the window, then turned to grab a leather briefcase from the back seat, slammed the door shut, and headed to the front door.

Naomi was surprised to see him, especially dressed in a suit and tie beneath a black, knee-length trench coat, appearing as though his most immediate concern was to relax after a long day of work. He knocked his shoes against the sidewalk to clear off slush and then disappeared beneath the roof over the front porch.

He seemed like a normal, middle-aged man coming home from work, but she knew better. She could still feel his fist against her face like a violent explosion. The bruise still hurt, pressed against the quilt of the bed, tight and stiff and probably uglier than Brad's ever was. It was probably deep violet, maybe even black, swollen and shiny. She wouldn't know. She hadn't looked at herself since the morning Evelyn cut her hair. She hadn't showered, changed her clothes, or done much of anything but lie on the bed and feel sorry for herself. It was pathetic and exhausting.

As the clock ticked its way toward seven-thirty, the click of a lock made her jump off the bed. Evelyn opened the door and gave her a weak, apologetic smile. She wore a white apron splattered with what looked like spaghetti sauce.

Food. For a minute she thought she might claw her way past Evelyn to get to it. The smell was suddenly strong, drifting up from the kitchen in stages—tomatoes and garlic, oregano and sweet basil.

"I need you to come downstairs with me," Evelyn said quietly.

Naomi followed her out of the bedroom, her heart pounding. She had to eat. She had never been so hungry in her life. She didn't care if she had to see Eric or anybody else. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but her stomach. That was more pathetic than anything.

They reached the end of the hall where Naomi saw a picture of Evelyn and a dark-haired man. She guessed he was Evelyn's husband, probably the man who had come into the bedroom with her the night before.

Downstairs, Evelyn led her into the living room where she told her to sit down on a leather sofa across from a TV. Books. They were everywhere, stacked neatly on the end tables, set in straight rows on shelves down the hallways, even in the kitchen. Most of the windows were covered with blinds and curtains. No phones anywhere.

Evelyn leaned down to her ear. "Stay quiet and don't move." She walked into the kitchen where Eric stood talking with the man from the picture. They were all holding bowls of spaghetti, eating during their conversation. The smell drove her crazy as she folded her hands in her lap, pushed her heels together, and sank farther into the leather cushions.

She couldn't believe they were going to let her eat. Her hands shook at the thought, but more than that, she didn't understand why they had left her on the couch. Didn't they think she would try to run? Because she could. There was a set of sliding glass patio doors in the dining room. It looked like they led to the backyard, but how fast could she run? She was weak with hunger, and if she managed to get out of the house, where would she go? She would only have one chance to make a run for it, and if she happened to knock on a neighbor's door and they weren't home or if there was nowhere to hide, what would she do then? They would catch her, and Eric would kill her just like he said. No, she had to wait. She had to make a plan. One mistake, she remembered from the hushed conversation in her room, and there would be consequences worse than she could imagine. Even Evelyn feared them.

A door slammed shut and Jesse walked in from the garage. He hung up his heavy, green coat, slipped off his shoes, and headed straight for the kitchen.

"Smells fantastic. I'm starving." He glanced at the empty dining table then at the bowl in Eric's hand. "Why are you all in here?"

Eric scowled, mumbling something as Jesse turned to look at her. From the way he had treated her in the motel room, she expected him to smile, but he narrowed his eyes and looked away.

Evelyn came into the living room and sat on a sofa. She grabbed a book from an end table and flipped it open, pretending to read as her husband sat down next to her, still eating his spaghetti. He had already splattered sauce on the sleeve of his white dress shirt, and gave Evelyn an apologetic smile when she glared at him over her book. Naomi thought he was nice looking—normal, like her dad. The sad thing was that she had no idea if her dad ever splattered sauce on his sleeves.

"Naomi," Evelyn said, "this is my husband, Steve."

Naomi swallowed and nodded as Steve smiled softly in her direction. He seemed nice so far. Making an introduction was a strange thing to do, but these people didn't seem like they were about to let her go anytime soon. She might as well get to know them. She hoped there weren't any others.

Eric came into the room next and pulled off his suit jacket. He tossed it next to Naomi and sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of her.

He was too close. She noticed his hair was shorter than before. His face looked sharper now since he had shaved, and as he placed his elbows on his knees and leaned closer, she smelled his aftershave mingled with garlic. Why did he have to be good-looking? His olive skin and dark lashes, the way his hair curled against his forehead—it all created the most satisfying balance. In the weirdest way, it made him that much creepier.

"Evelyn told me how cooperative you've been," he said coolly with a glance at her hair. "I'm not surprised. We brought you down here to see what you'd do, and well, here you are—sitting quietly." He smiled, but it was twisted all wrong. "You seem like a smart girl. You're not going to try to escape."

She pressed her lips tight as he chuckled. He started unbuttoning one of his sleeves. "Tell me about your parents," he said without looking up. "Tell me why your mom went back to work one day after she found out you were missing."

A weight slammed into her chest. One day? She had expected maybe a week or two, but _one day?_ Had her dad gone back too? No doubt he had.

"Well?" He looked up from his sleeve.

"I don't know. I guess she—"

She had to stop. An ache tightened her throat and she couldn't talk anymore. She knew it was only a matter of moments before she lost it in front this man she hated more than anybody she had ever met. The last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of him. Again. He made her feel naked. He made her feel like puking.

"Look at me." He lightly placed a hand on her arm. "There are rumors your parents don't even miss you. What kind of relationship do you have with them?"

"They have important jobs," she stuttered. She hated the tears filling her eyes. She hated how hot Eric's hand felt on her arm. "They work all the time. A lot of people depend on them. They've never had time to spend with me, so I guess that's why they don't care about me. They've never cared about me."

That's all it took. Her tears broke free and streamed down her face. It was the first time she had ever admitted out loud that her parents didn't love her. It was the truth. A fact. Not even up for negotiation. She remembered her nannies making random comments about how odd it was that her parents didn't celebrate holidays with her, even her birthday—not because they didn't want to, necessarily. They bought her things, but that was it. "They're just too busy to do anything else," her nannies said in an attempt to explain it away. It was then that Naomi started noticing other children and how their parents dropped them off at school and kissed their foreheads, handed them sack lunches, scolded them for doing something wrong. Nobody cared about her like that.

Eric was quiet and Naomi looked up at him, her tears still running down her face. He removed his hand from her arm and started rolling up his sleeve.

"That's good enough," he said. "Now I need to know about your boyfriend, Brad."

He knew Brad's name? Her tears stopped. Now she really wanted to puke.

"What's your relationship with him?"

Her eyes widened. "That's none of your business!"

Before she knew what was happening, he slapped her right across the bruise on her cheek. She almost bit through her lip.

"Eric! You said—"

"Quiet, Evie." He took Naomi's arm again and leaned so close to her face that all she could see was the bridge of his nose. She hated his nose. She hated his dark eyes and the garlic on his breath. "Tell me how you feel about Brad."

She looked away, straining against his arm.

"If you don't answer me I'll lock you back in the room with no food for three more days."

That did it.

"I don't love him, if that's what you're asking," she whispered, blinking, finally aware of the sting from his slap. It didn't hurt. Nothing hurt now.

He nodded and stood up from the coffee table. "Good." He turned to Evelyn. "Take her back upstairs."

Evelyn stood up from the couch. She was still holding the book, her knuckles white. "You said we could give her something to eat."

"She can wait until tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Eric, she hasn't eaten for two days!" Her lips quivered as Steve stood and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"Sweetie, calm down. You agreed to let Eric make the decisions, remember? We've discussed this."

"Yes, but you both said we're doing this because I—"

"That's enough." Eric glared at her.

She lowered her eyes and nodded.

"I'll take her upstairs," Jesse said. He was at the dining table eating his dinner. He swallowed the last of his wine, threw a half-eaten piece of garlic bread on top of his spaghetti, and motioned for Naomi to follow him. She was glad he was taking her. Something about him felt safe. They headed up the stairs and she realized he hadn't taken hold of her arm. He stopped in front of her door.

"Will you be all right?" he asked.

She lowered her eyes to the noodles in his bowl and held back a flood of tears. She was such an idiot. Why couldn't she be strong for five minutes? Her stomach clenched so tightly she wrapped her arms around herself to try to stop the pain. She blushed and looked away.

"I guess so," she mumbled, and turned to go into her room when Jesse wrapped a hand around her arm.

"I won't let them hurt you," he whispered, then gently nudged her into her room and followed her inside.

She stumbled backward. "Wh-what do you want?"

He turned and shut the door. "Here." He flipped on the light and held out his bowl of spaghetti. She snatched it from his hands, too hungry to care about anything else as she bit into the bread and turned away. She didn't care that he had already eaten half of it, that his mouth had been on it. She could feel his eyes on her back.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"You don't know?" She stared at her bed as she chewed so fast her temples started to hurt. She knew she should eat slower, but she couldn't help herself. "You guys seem to know everything else about me."

A pause.

"Okay, I know you're seventeen."

"Then why did you ask?" She spun around, food still in her mouth. It tasted so good. She wished he would leave so she could enjoy it.

"No reason." He stepped forward, and she saw a spark in his eyes as he leaned forward and drifted his gaze down her body.

She almost choked.

So far she had managed to convince herself that none of the men would touch her except to hit her or force her to move, but now a whole new fear opened up inside her. She swallowed. Hard.

"I'd like to be alone," she said and stepped back. He took another step to match hers. His green eyes were anchors attached to her body. She remembered the poetry book he had been reading in the motel room and her mind fought to cling to it, to anything that might mean he wouldn't hurt her. People who read poetry didn't hurt others, did they? Maybe that was the dumbest thing she had ever let herself believe.

"I'll stay until you finish." He nodded at the bowl and smiled. An idea, small and possibly insane, formed in the back of her mind.

"I'll hurry." She shoveled the food into her mouth as fast as she could. She wasn't hungry anymore, but the faster she finished, the faster he would leave—if that was his intention. She guessed it wasn't.

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# About the Author

Michelle lives and writes surrounded by the Rocky Mountains, where she finds every excuse possible to go hiking and be outdoors. Michelle mainly writes contemporary fiction, but occasionally branches into other genres.
