The Blonde Identity: A Novel

“Well, this was just an excellent idea.”

“Thank you,” she said, sounding mildly pleased with herself until she turned, staring at him through the shadows. “Wait. Are you being sarcastic? Because it might be the brain injury, but I’m finding it really hard to tell if you’re being sarcastic.”

Given that they were both clinging to a pair of old, rusty beams, feet scraping and scrambling for purchase as they held themselves horizontal over the icy water of the Seine while eight-to-twelve Russian mobsters with semiautomatic weapons searched the streets overhead . . . Yeah. Sarcasm seemed okay under the circumstances.

“Well?” she asked, sounding impatient.

“Give me a minute. I’m trying to decide.”

For a moment, he savored the silence, but it didn’t last long. There was yelling up above, deep, guttural shouts that carried on the wind and seemed to echo through the old stone and rusty metal.

“What are they saying?” she whispered.

“Keep searching,” he translated softly. “Find them.”

Motorcycles roared to life and took off, probably chasing after the boat full of tourists. But Sawyer knew they might not all go. And some would certainly circle back. Soon, the banks of the Seine would be swarming with mobsters and badges. He wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard her gulp. He knew exactly how she felt.

“So we’ve got a small window.” She winced and shifted and almost lost her grip. The sharp edges of the beams were cutting into his arms. They had to be cutting into hers, too, as they held on, forearms wrapped around the metal. He felt ridiculous. But also . . . alive.

“So what do we do now?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. He could hear traffic overhead and feel the cold wind blowing down the river. A few minutes before, he’d thought they were going to have to carry him away in a body bag, so it wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful. It was more that this felt like a classic frying pan/fire situation.

“Do you have any ideas?” he asked as the air around them seemed to change. Another boat was passing below. And, suddenly, her eyes went wide. Her whole face glowed. She didn’t look at all like Alex when she said, “Yeah. This.”

And then she just let go.

He tried to lunge for her, catch her, pull her back and hold on tight. But she was too far away and he felt her slip through his fingers. He looked down, expecting to see her disappearing into the icy water, but, instead, she was rolling across the deck of the ship that was moving in the opposite direction from the boat full of tourists. And, presumably, the Russians.

So he dropped down beside her, onto a deck that looked like it had been put in a press and squeezed flat. Everything was horizontal, collapsed. Smushed. There were disassembled deck chairs and tables, and was that a big umbrella? But it didn’t matter what kind of ship this was, all he cared about was that it was still moving and, in three seconds, they’d be exposed unless . . .

“Ooh! What’s that?” she asked, but he didn’t have time to think, or look, or debate the strategic advantages of hiding under patio furniture because he was too busy pushing her under that giant tarp, pressing against this total stranger and squeezing in—lying perfectly still.

Waiting for the danger and the world to pass them by.