I’ve been in a daze all day, unable to fathom a way out that doesn’t involve me running away and starting over. Again. And part of me thinks I should do it now.
Save myself the hassle and heartbreak, not to mention the risk to my life and the lives of people here that I care about.
I was almost resolved this morning that I need to go immediately. But then Carly called me into her office to show me pictures from St. Kitts. She got in a bunch of her wedding photos from her photographer and wants to sit down with me to look at them with her later to help pick which ones she’ll use for thank you cards, for portraits for their home, and whatnot.
I agree and try to pretend nothing is wrong, pretend she didn’t shout at me in her kitchen the night before.
I’m trying to tell myself to feel confident that he’s not going to be able to figure out who I am. There was nothing connecting me to Tori. Me going to her was completely random and there’s no way Jude would be able to find out about that. I mean, how could he, right?
Is there something traceable in the fake identifications Tori sells? Her temp agency?
Is there anything connecting me to Columbus and the Steele brothers?
But if he does…
If he does, I guess I get one more minute in his arms before I have to go. Unless I go now.
But I find myself daydreaming about that possibility – one more night with Jude.
I’ve also gone over a variety of possibly plausible reasons for changing my name that I could tell to Carly, so I can get in front of it with her. But the idea of lying to her has my stomach churning. I could wait and see if he can figure it out by Sunday. If he can’t, I play things by ear. If he can? Maybe I should have my bug-out plan ready to go.
Because if he finds the truth, that means Thad and Jonah could find me, too. And if he tries to help me, my professional dick roommate could wind up looking like one of the victims in those pictures that Not Dick Tracy showed me. And I can’t let that happen.
***
Thursday Night:
I should’ve planned better, should’ve planned to not be home, but I didn’t see his truck outside, so I was under a false sense of security when I arrived. As soon as my key is in the lock, the door swings open and I find myself face-to-face with Jude.
Delicious aromas assault my senses as I spot an older lady in my kitchen.
What?
He catches me by the hips as I teeter unsteadily, taking in the sight before me.
“Whoa,” he says huskily.
I shrink back, but he pulls me forward before closing the door.
The living room is spotless.
His eyes are twinkling with what looks like excitement. There’s gold glitter on his cheekbone that I have the urge to touch. I refrain.
My mess of shoes that blocked the front door are inside the coat closet. The mess of clothes, craft stuff, and other supplies from my trip are nowhere to be seen, which has me prickling with tension. Did someone go into my room? I’ll have to check my nanny cam app. My phone died halfway through the afternoon and I forgot to plug it in.
“Ma and Baka came by. They did some cooking and cleaning.”
“Uh…”
“My mother and grandmother. My ma will be back in a minute. She ran home to grab bread and wine for dinner. Come.”
Dinner?
Before I have a chance to protest, not only is he ushering me toward the kitchen, but there’s also a set of elderly and rather shrewd-looking eyes on me.
“Baka, this is her.” He puts his arm around me and touches his mouth to my temple. “My little vixen.” His voice has dropped an octave and for some reason my belly goes whoosh. “Ally, my baka, Mira Kokotovic.”
Suddenly, I’m being manhandled in the arms of a tall, thin lady of somewhere around seventy with short, tight gray curls and lots of wrinkles. She’s got me by my cheeks. She says something in another language as she looks into my eyes with her big brown ones.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Kokotovic,” I say.
“I’m Baka to you, too,” she says sternly.
I’m dumbfounded.
“Wash your hands and cut these peppers for me, Ally,” she orders and immediately squirts dish soap on my hands.
I startle.
She’s got a faint accent of some sort, but I have no idea what type and she speaks English well.
“No, Ma. Ally’s a working girl,” A new female voice calls out from behind me as I hear the door click shut.
I look over my shoulder at the new voice and see a well-dressed lady of around my mom’s age with dark shoulder-length thick hair, Jude’s eyes, and a beautiful smile approaching with shopping bags in each hand. Jude divests her of the bags, and she smiles brightly at him, continuing to speak as she unloops her handbag from her shoulder and sets it on my coffee table. “She’s a career girl, let her sit. I’m Jude’s mother, Ana Novak. Nice to meet you.”