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“How long?” He lifts a glass of water and takes a sip.
“I was a child, twelve,” I confess shakily. He nods this over before leaning back in his chair.
“So you’re collateral.” He has me pegged within seconds. Of course he does, as if a small child could purposely do such harm to such bad men. “These people, what were they like?”
“Bad,” I say. “I don’t know who they are, but I know they intend to come for me.” I frown down at my own glass. No matter how long it takes.
“So they have contacted you?" he casually asks, taking a timely sip and relaxing back in his chair.
“I received a bouquet of dead flowers a year after I was signed with Miranda’s agency. The note was simple, but to the point. I know they will come for me.”
“What did it say?” Callan’s finger roams the rim of his glass, but his eyes are on mine, hard, intrigued.
Sucking in a breath, I force myself to say the words that have haunted me since.
“You will only be famous for so long.” My voice never wavers, but a pained whisper is all I can spare.
“You’re on borrowed time, and instead of hiding, you put yourself in the spotlight. Why put such an easy target on yourself?” Heavy fists hit the table with a distinctive thud. I jump at his aggressiveness. Why is he so cross with me?
“It’s not easy. I was more accessible in the dark, easier to cover up. This way, too many people know me, too many people will notice, so I’m too hard to get rid of. They admitted as much in their note,” I snap loudly. I feel stupid all of a sudden, vulnerable. I swallow and fight the urge to tuck my hair behind my ears, something I do when I’m nervous.
He contemplates what I’ve said. “It is a smart move,” he says, meaning it, “you're a brave woman, Zara.” My chest fills with his praise.
“I’m done playing this role. I want a new life.” I say fiercely.
“How do I know you’re not playing a role now?” Maybe I should ask him the same thing?
“Because I have nothing to gain from telling you any of this. In fact, it makes me more vulnerable. You’re another person who knows, another link, another person to use this against me. For all I know, you could blackmail me.” I shrug, frustrated that he would think such a thing. Imagine making something this extreme up—for what, attention? I suddenly worry he will blackmail me. He owes me nothing, and I know Callan is the kind of man to keep his friends close and his enemies closer. He will take what he can and use it to his own advantage.
“You believe they will hurt you?” he murmurs as he swirls the glass in his fingers.
“They shot my father right in front of me.” My mouth turns down. “I escaped because of him. I’m on their wanted list.” I’m rubbing at my temples, trying to repel the sickening images pouring back in. “As soon as the world is bored of me, they will make their move.”
“I found no mention of your father’s name or a mother, and no mention of you, in fact, before you were sixteen.” That was when I was spotted by my agent: that was the day I became Zara Reid. It was pure luck that I’d lived unscathed in the shadows—sheer pure and exhausting luck.
Chapter Fifteen
“That’s because Zara isn’t my real name,” I confess with a dry swallow. The tightly constructed wall around me begins to break, another piece chips away, and my vulnerability is open for his taking, and take he will. I’m as terrified now as I was all those years ago.
His nod suggests he suspected as much.
“I need details, Zara.” His drink hits the table, and his thumb begins a leisurely roll around the glass rim before he sucks a droplet from his thumb.
“I’ve given you details,” I argue lightly.
“Your father’s name. I need to know who I’m up against.” He grits his teeth, his cheeks hollowing out, and I can tell he is trying to be patient with me. I’ve not spoken his name in so long, not even whispered my own, let alone allowed myself the luxury to think of it.
“Anthony Monroe,” I say, pride filling my wobbly voice. Callan’s eyes widen, but he schools his expression, and I stand from the table in a rush. It was slight, but I still saw it nonetheless. “You know something!” I accuse. “You knew my father,” I say in a pained croak. I’ve long since accepted that my father was involved with some immoral people. The ‘why’ is still a mystery to me.
“I knewofyour father,” he stands, too, “you’re Olivia Monroe.” Callan, for once, looks taken aback. No longer are his features locked into a neutral mask. His frown pulls his brows together, and a deep v forms between his eyes. He’s trying to work this all out. His shrewd eyes move furiously, trying to filter and connect it all.
“No, I’m Zara Reid,” I say with emphasis. “How did you know my father?” I demand hotly.
“I didn’t know him, Zara. I knowofhim. He was killed eleven years ago. It was covered up: burnt-out warehouse, gas leak. He was held accountable for the fire.” He reels the information off as if he read it in the headlines yesterday.
“He didn’t do it!” I cry. My mind is back in that place. I know they burnt it to the ground.
“I know, come here.” I shake my head and lean on the chair forcefully, trying to rid my mind of those final moments. Callan walks purposefully to me and sweeps me up, taking me to his own seat. I want to argue, but I don’t. Sitting in his lap, I wipe the tears away quickly before he sees. I breathe out a steadying breath to get my emotions in check. I don’t want to be that scared little girl again.
