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There’s a footstep in the corridor outside. Daisy sticks her head in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt,” she whispers, her dark eyes shining. “Can I call the others and tell them?”
I turn to her slowly. She frowns. “Baby? Are you okay?” She steps into the room. “God, it’s not bad news, is it?”
“Who’s Jenny Adams?” I ask. All of the blood rushes out of her face.
Twenty-Four
Daisy
“Wh-where did you hear that name?” My eyes flick to the radio in his hand. “Who are you talking to?”
The radio fizzes with static.Is that her? Oh, thank God. Jenny, baby. Jenny, pick up the radio. Tell me you’re okay.
Sam.I take a step back.No. No.Riven holds the radio out to me, his face blank. “You should answer him.”
No. No.I lick my lips. “No,” I force out.
“Apparently he’s your boyfriend,” Riven clips out. His voice is utterly expressionless. “He sounds worried about you. You shouldn’t let him worry.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
The radio crackles.Jenny, baby, it’s so good to hear your voice. Are you okay? What the Hell are you doing?
“Take it,” Riven says, thrusting the radio at me. I pull away, letting it clatter to the floor. Sam’s voice cuts off. “No.I’m not talking to him. And he’s not my boyfriend, he’s my ex.”
“Really.” Riven’s voice is flat.
“Yes! Really! Why would you believe him over me, you don’t even know him!”
“It sounds like I don’t even know you.” He shakes his head. “What’s your name?”
“D-Daisy Whittaker.”
His lips press together as he surveys me. I shiver as his cold eyes assess me. The man in front of me looks nothing like the man who was laughing into my neck just minutes ago. He looks furious. Like he hates me.
“Give me your wallet,” he says suddenly.
“What?”
He looks around the room, spotting my handbag hung over a kitchen chair. He goes to pick it up, rooting through it until he finds my wallet.
I lunge for it. “What the Hell are you doing? Give that back!”
“Stop,” he orders, opening it and shaking all of my cards onto the table. He looks through them slowly, examining my driver’s licence, my library card, my debit card. Reading the name printed on all of them.Jennifer Adams.
Ice slides down my back. “I can explain,” I whisper.
He ignores me, checking inside my purse again and finding my passport. He flips through the pages, checking my name and photo.
“Sure looks like you,” he says flatly. “Well. I suppose everything makes a lot more sense, now.” He tosses the passport onto the table.
“Riven, I swear, it’s not what you think—”
“Is anything you told us true?” He demands. “Anything at all? Do you really live in London?”
“No,” I whisper. “Brighton.”
“What?”
