Free Express Male by Elizabeth Bevarly Page A

already been written up by them dozens of times. Those stories just reinforce how we can’t possibly exist anywhere outside someone’s delusion. Besides, if we find out you’re talking about us, we have ways of making you stop.”
    Her blood went cold at the matter-of-fact way he said that. “Are you threatening me?”
    “Yeah.”
    “With what?”
    He chuckled at her expression. “Don’t worry, we won’t kill you or make you disappear. But you’ll find out what all the ruckus is about identity theft. We’ll ruin your credit and tie up your finances and create debt for you where you never had it before. We’ll make you lose your job and your home and everything else we can think of. It’s not a good idea to piss off Uncle Sam.”
    Unbelievable, she thought. But, alas, totally believable.
    “I won’t say a word to anyone,” she vowed.
    “Good.”
    “So then you won’t mind telling me your name,” she added, not sure why it was so important for her to know.
    He hesitated for a moment, then, “Noah Tennant,” he told her. “Code name Sinatra.”
    Of course, she thought. With those eyes, what else would his code name be?
    “Now if you’re ready to go,” he said, “we can leave anytime.”
    “I’m ready now,” she told him. Actually, she was ready seven and a half hours ago. “But before we leave…?” she added, her voice trailing off before finishing the question.
    “Yes?”
    “Could you tell me if there’s a ladies’ room nearby?”
     
    T HE EASTERN SKY was stained with orange and gold by the time Lila directed Noah to an older section of Cleveland and a neighborhood of tidy homes built between the two world wars. The driveway into which she told him to turn belonged to a red-brick bungalow whose porch spanned the front of the house, and whose broad front windows sported window boxes awaiting spring planting. Terra-cotta pots, likewise empty of flowers this time of year, lined the concrete shelf wrapping the porch and a white wicker swing hung at one end. A quartet of hanging Boston ferns dotted the front, suggesting the owner had been impatient for something to grow, and yellow bug lamps glowed on each side of the front door.
    Noah wondered who lived here and why Lila was pretending it was her. She could no more nurture plants—or feel comfortable in such a blatantly cozy house—than he could. He hoped she didn’t try to go inside. It would be difficult to explain the situation to the owners.
    “Thanks for driving me home,” she said from the passenger seat as he dropped her car keys into her hand.
    “You’re sure you have a ride coming?”
    “I’m sure they’re right behind us,” he lied.
    “Well…thanks again,” she said, reaching for the door handle. “I appreciate it.”
    She sounded exhausted, which he was certain she was after being interrogated all night, and glad to be home, which he was certain she was not, since this couldn’t possibly be her home. Nor could she be happy to be anywhere in his vicinity. He wondered how much longer it would take her to crack.
    “I’ll follow you in,” he offered. “Make sure everything’s okay.”
    She looked vaguely alarmed by his offer. Which she naturally would be. If he followed her in, she’d have to admit she didn’t live here. And she wouldn’t be able to run away if he stayed too close.
    “That’s okay,” she said as she pushed open the door.
    “I’ll be fine. It’s a safe neighborhood. And I should know, since I grew up in this house.”
    Noah smiled indulgently. Of course she’d grown up in this house. It just screamed ruthless agent Lila Moreau. “Humor me,” he said. “I feel bad about what we put you through tonight, and I want to make sure you get all the way home safely.”
    Still looking wary, she said, “All right.”
    Her easy acquiescence put him on alert, and he quickly scrambled out of the car before she had a chance to escape. But instead of running, she made her way up the front walk, flipping