Kyle made introductions. “Carla, Maren Walsh. Maren, Officer Carla DeVivo.”
“Just Carla,” the officer said, extending her hand.
Maren shook her hand. “Thank you for doing this. I?—”
“Are you kidding?” Carla looked at the Subaru like it was a sports car. “This’ll be fun.”
Another car pulled up—a sleek sedan. Gina grinned. “Right on time. Colin? Could you give my friend a hand with her things?”
“Sure thing.” He jogged down the steps to the sedan as a woman got out and popped the trunk, revealing two rolling suitcases. Colin took them out of the trunk and followed behind her.
The woman was petite, with an efficient energy about her that reminded Maren of a stage manager or a surgeon.
“Nettie,” Gina said. “This is Maren. Maren, Nettie—the best disguise artist you’ll ever meet.”
“Makeupartist, remember?” Nettie corrected her with a wink. Maren wondered who she actually was. Nettie gave Maren a quick, assessing look—not unkind, just professional. “Nice bone structure. Good skin tone. This’ll be easy.” She turned to Carla. “You’re the one I’m working with?”
“That’s me.”
“Great. Let’s go inside. I need good light.”
They moved into the safehouse. Nettie set up in the kitchen with the efficiency of someone who’d done this a hundred timesbefore. She opened both suitcases—one full of wigs, prosthetics, and cosmetics, the other containing clothing in various sizes.
“Okay,” Nettie said, studying Carla, then Maren. “Real talk. How bad does your hair look after a long drive?”
Maren blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Because if we’re selling this, Carla needs to look like someone who’s been white-knuckling it across three states, not like she just walked out of a salon.” Nettie pulled a wig from the case—dark brown, shoulder-length, close enough to Maren’s actual hair. She held it up to Carla’s face, considering. “Messy or messier?”
“Messier,” Maren said. “Especially if I’ve been wearing a baseball cap.”
Nettie nodded and put the wig on Carla, adjusted it, then deliberately pulled a few pieces loose around her face. She grabbed Maren’s hoodie from the back of a chair—the one she’d been wearing when she arrived—and held it up to Carla. “Put this on.”
Carla pulled it on, added sunglasses, and slouched her shoulders just slightly.
Maren’s stomach dropped.
She was looking at herself.
Not exactly. Not if you already knew her and you were standing five feet away in good light. But on a grainy traffic camera or a gas station security feed? Close enough.
“How’m I doing?” Carla asked.
“Terrifying,” Maren said quietly.
Nettie smiled, satisfied. “Perfect. That’s the goal.”
Carla grinned and pulled the hoodie down. “Okay, ground rules. I’m not maxing out your credit card, just gas and snacks and the hotel at the end of the line. I’m not talking to anyone who might ask questions. I’m just a Maren-shaped woman driving a Subaru east with Iowa plates in her future.”
“Elissa’s handling the credit card trail in Denver,” Gina said. “Hotel, backdated. Food delivery to really sell it. Then you stop for gas in Nebraska, somewhere around Ogallala. Grab some food, keep on to Omaha.”
“Got it,” Carla said. She looked at Maren. “You good with this?”
Maren nodded. She wasn’t entirely. She really liked Carla, and even if she didn’t, she hated the idea of putting her into possible danger.
“Please be careful,” she said quietly.
“Don’t worry about me, hun.” She eyed Colin, standing beside Maren. “Worry about falling for this guy. They make ’em tall, dark, and handsome at Watchdog.” Carla laughed. “Or in the case of the Mountie over there,” she pointed at Mac, “Tall, blond, and extremely handsome.”
