Page 9

“I’m not harassing anyone.”

I folded my arms. "You’re in an emergency room lobby at eleven o’clock at night. Why do you have a professional rig in a hospital?"

The guy shifted his weight, glancing toward the automatic doors. "My sister just got discharged from a gallbladder surgery. I was leaving when I saw... her." He nodded toward the woman in the wig. "I’m a freelancer out of Key West. I recognized the face even with that wig. That shot is worth six months of rent, man."

I didn’t move my gaze from his eyes. Who she was didn’t matter. “Get lost.”

"I’m press," he stammered, clutching the camera to his chest like a shield. "Freedom of the press, man. She’s a public figure."

I glanced at the woman once more. She looked small and broken. Her wig was crooked, revealing a sliver of blonde hair underneath. Her face was bruised, and she wore a hospital blanket like a cape. She was shaking, the furthest thing possible from a celebrity.

"She’s a patient in an emergency room." I turned my attention back to the guy. "And she said no. I heard her."

"I have a right⁠—"

"You have a right to leave," I cut him off. I took a half-step closer, encroaching on his air supply. "You said your sister is gone, so you have no reason to be here. Beat it. But you’re going to delete those photos before you do.”

"What? No way. Those are⁠—"

"Delete them," I said softly. "Or I’m going to assume that camera is a safety hazard and confiscate it. Trust me, the paperwork to get it back from the fire marshal is a nightmare."

It was a bluff. I had absolutely zero authority to confiscate his camera. But he didn’t know that. All he saw was a giant in a paramedic uniform who looked like he was contemplating feeding the Nikon to the Doritos dispenser. The guy swallowed hard, staring at me, then at the camera, then back at me. The math was simple. Cursing, he fumbled with the buttons on the back of the camera.

Click. Click. Click.

"Deleted," he snarled, holding up the screen to show me the No Images message. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic," I deadpanned. "Now walk away. If I see you in the parking lot, we’re going to have a much longer conversation about fire safety."

He shouldered his bag and scurried toward the automatic doors, glancing back once before disappearing into the rain. I held still, making sure he was actually leaving, before I turned back to the woman. She was staring at me, her blue eyes wide, dark, and filled with a mixture of shock and wariness. She looked like a deer that had just narrowly avoided being hit by a truck, which, considering how I found her, was accurate.

"You okay?" I asked, my voice shifting gears. I dialed down the intimidation and brought up the paramedic calm.

She nodded slowly, but her hands were still trembling. "Yes. I... thank you. You didn’t have to do that."

"I hate guys like that." Remembering why I was there in the first place, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the locket. "I think you dropped this in the rig."

She gasped, her hand flying to her bare throat. "My locket. Oh my G-God."

She reached out, and I dropped the gold oval and chain into her palm. Her fingers brushed mine—cold skin against warm. She clutched the jewelry tight, closing her eyes for a second as if saying a prayer.

"Thank you," she whispered. "My grandmother gave this to me. I thought it was gone forever."

"It was almost hidden in the ambulance. I wanted to get it back to you." I should have walked away then. Mission accomplished. Good deed done. But I didn’t. I stayed in front of her, studying her face. "He called you Sutton."

She stiffened. The wariness slammed back into place behind her eyes. "He made a mistake. That’s not my name."

"What is your name?"

She hesitated. The gears turned behind her eyes, the calculation working behind the panic. She stared at the exit, then back at me. "Kate Green.”

She said it with a challenge in her jaw, waiting for a reaction. I frowned. The set of her face triggered a memory. Last week, I’d stopped by the bookstore to fix a flickering light for my sister Brenna, who owned it. She had been humming along to a song on the radio.

When I asked her who it was, she’d rolled her eyes and said, “It’s Sutton Vale, Ben. Literally the most famous woman on the planet. Do you live under a rock?”

I studied the woman in front of me. The muddy sweatpants. The cheap, synthetic wig. The hospital socks. I looked at the structure of her face—the high cheekbones, the specific curve of her jaw that I’d seen on a dozen magazine covers in the checkout line at the grocery store.

It was her. There was no doubt about it. I was standing in front of one of the most recognizable faces in the world.