Nothing to do but count my breath and wait. I try to remain calm, because I know I'll need to be when the time comes. Can't get excited and blurt something out; I could ruin everything.

Have to do better than the last time I was in a police station.

It's almost an hour before a heavyset black man in a white polo shirt and tan slacks steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. I start to push myself up out of the chair to shake his hand.

"No, no, that's all right," he says quickly, voice low, waving his hands at me. "I insist, not with that broken leg and everything."

He stands motionless, watching me for a couple of seconds, until I'm completely relaxed back into my seat—only then does he reanimate.

His hand juts out, dark with gnarled knuckles. "I'm Detective Green," he says. "But you can call me Charlie."

We shake hands. His grip is solid, but he doesn't squeeze my hand. He's got the dial switched over to 'comforting.'

"Hi, Charlie," I say. "I'm Ryan." I keep my voice quiet, my eyes on the floor.

Charlie sits down in the chair next to me and rests one elbow on the table. "You look like you're having a bad day," he says, still genial, like a nice uncle you only see at holidays.

The corner of my upper lip jerks into a half-smile for a second, then collapses under the strain. "I've had better."

"That's some accent. Where are you from, Ryan?"

"I'm from Scotland," I answer.

"And where are your parents, Ryan? We checked through your phone—I hope you don't mind—and we checked the phone books, but we're having trouble finding them."

I stare down at the table, at the tic-tac-toe board that embodies my dilemma. "My parents are dead. They died in the same crash I broke my leg in," I answer. "Back in Scotland. But I was born here, and I spent about half my life in Florida, with my grandparents. I have a cousin here, so I came here to reunite and stay with her. There's nothing left for me in Edinburgh."

"I'm very sorry to hear that, Ryan. So you lost your parents recently? I know that can hurt. My dad died last year." He practically sings the words, voice dripping sympathy.

When I don't offer anything else, an uncomfortable silence fills the room. I swallow back the urge to tell him my real name, to spill everything. Kayla's real murderer is in a cell somewhere in this police station, and I only need to say so to put him away.

Instead, I force a weak smile.

"How did you wind up in that car today?" he asks me.

One thought repeats in my head, over and over again: What did Jack tell them? If he already told them everything, and I sit here and play innocent, I'm only going to look guilty. The best time to strike would be now, while I have the chance to prove I'm the victim. Now, while they still trust me.

Unless Jack hasn't talked. If he hasn't, I'd only be starting a war I can't finish.

"I landed in Orlando a few weeks ago, and stayed in a hotel. There's a little money from their life insurance, you know. It took me a while to find Cassandra—that's my cousin—on Facebook. She sent that guy to come get me."

"What's his name?" he asks.

"No one's told me," I answer.

"That's an hour and a half drive. He didn't tell you his name?" Now the syrupy pretense is gone. Just skepticism.

"We didn't get along very well. He seemed real pissed about having to pick me up."

"Did he beat you up?" the detective asks, pointing at his own face to demonstrate the damage to mine.

I turn and look at the wall, pressing my lips together. A few seconds pass.

"If he did, we can file assault charges."

The lies develop quickly in my head. Everything unverifiable, everything loose. Point him at a patch of shadows. "I'm trying to stay with my cousin," I say. "That's her boyfriend. If I start trouble, there won't be anywhere for me to live."

"Well, Ryan, there's a dead body in the trunk of his car. You think she's still going to want to stay with him once she hears that?" He folds his hands on his lap. There's some new age symbol in silver on his middle finger.

"Did he murder someone?" I ask. "Was he going to murder me?"

The detective shrugs. "That's what I'm trying to find out."

"I saw the body. What happened to that man?"

He rubs the back of his neck. "We're not sure. There wasn't any blood, there aren't any injuries. Been dead for a while. Nobody is missing who fits that description. He's just...dead."

I nod. Confirms what I guessed about the body. If that's true, maybe Jack won't spend much time in prison. Good for me—gives him a reason not to talk.

"I don't know who that was," I answer. "That's scary. I rode in that car a few feet away from a dead body."

Detective Green leans back and sighs, then raps his fingers across the table. He watches me for a moment, and I remain still, counting my breath.

Not sure if this is working.

"Did he say anything about being from Texas?" the detective asks me.

Suddenly I'm light-headed; the blood drains from my face, and with it, the color drains from the world—washed out from the top down.

Texas. They know about Texas.

Someone knocks on the door.

"Hey," I say. "I can call my cousin again. She can probably come and get me—I'd really like to get to her place, you know? It's like you said. It's been a long day."

The detective nods as he rises and walks to the door. It cracks open; a face fills it. They stand inches apart, talking in murmurs, but I hear snippets.

"...detective on a plane..."

"...he's coming out here?"

I hear one word out of the next sentence: "Tattoo."

The confidence that drove me earlier melts, pools in my shoes and overruns them, spreads out across the floor in a puddle the color of my soul.

They can only be talking about one man. It can only be Detective Alvarado. If he sees me, everything ends.

"Hey, Ryan, let me get back to you on that, okay? I need to check on something."

And with that, Charlie leaves me alone in the room. Right now, being Sean Reilly again doesn't seem so appealing.