ONE

      It couldn’t be.

      Ice filled Ashley Willis’s veins despite the spring sunshine streaming through the living room windows of the Bristle Township home in Colorado where she rented a bedroom.

      Disbelief cemented her feet to the floor, her gaze riveted to the horrific images on the television screen.

      Flames shot of out of the two-story building she’d hoped never to see again. Its once bright red awnings were now singed black and the magnificent stained-glass windows depicting the image of an angry bull were no more.

      She knew that place intimately.

      The same place that haunted her nightmares.

      The newscaster’s words assaulted her. She grabbed on to the back of the faded floral couch for support.

      In a fiery inferno, the posh Burbank restaurant, The Matador, was consumed by a raging fire in the wee hours of the morning. Firefighters are working diligently to douse the flames. So far there have been no fatalities, however, there has been one critical injury.

      Ashley’s heart thumped painfully in her chest, reminding her to breathe. Concern for her friend, Gregor, the man who had safely spirited her away from the Los Angeles area one frightening night a year and a half ago when she’d witnessed her boss, Maksim Sokolov, kill a man, thrummed through her. She had to know what happened. She had to know if Gregor was the one injured.

      She had to know if this had anything to do with her.

      “Mrs. Marsh,” Ashley called out. “Would you mind if I use your cell phone?”

      Her landlady, a widow in her mideighties, appeared in the archway between the living room and kitchen. Her hot-pink tracksuit hung on her stooped shoulders but it was her bright smile that always tugged at Ashley’s heart. The woman was a spitfire with her blue-gray hair and her kind green eyes behind thick spectacles.

      “Of course, dear. It’s in my purse.” She pointed to the black satchel on the dining room table. “Though you know, as I keep saying, you should get your own cell phone. It’s not safe for a young lady to be walking around without any means of calling for help.”

      They had been over this before. Ashley didn’t want anything attached to her name.

      Or rather, her assumed identity—Jane Thompson.

      Putting the name she was using in some system where it could be flagged and she could be discovered in Bristle Township was a disaster she wanted to avoid at all costs.

      So far, using the identification Gregor had given her had worked. She’d been too stunned at the time to question where he’d obtained the driver’s license, social security card and credit card, all with the name Jane Thompson. She suspected she wouldn’t have liked the answer had she asked. No one so far had questioned that she wasn’t Jane Thompson. She didn’t know what she’d do if the thin line keeping her safe disappeared and her true identity became known.

      A shudder of dread, followed closely by a jab of guilt at deceiving the good people of Bristle Township, made her gut tighten. She prayed God would forgive her for doing what she had to in order to survive.

      “I just need to make a quick phone call,” Ashley assured her landlady as the urgent drive to know who was injured consumed her.

      If she could have bought a burner phone in Bristle Township she would have, but that wasn’t an option. First, none of the local stores carried one—she’d discreetly searched—and second, everyone would know about such a purchase the moment she made it.

      Thankfully, Mrs. Marsh’s data plan included free long distance, as well as Wi-Fi. Mrs. Marsh’s children, who both lived in Texas, had sent her the phone so that they could communicate with her.

      With phone in hand, Ashley quickly searched for the hospitals in and around the Burbank area. She called each listed and on the fourth try found the hospital where the critically injured victim of The Matador fire had been taken.

      Her heart sank to have her fear confirmed that Gregor Kominski, the restaurant’s manager, had been the one hurt. Anxiety made her limbs shake beneath the khaki pants and long sleeve T-shirt sporting the Java Bean logo on the front breast pocket and the back. She had been on her way out the door for work when she’d seen the news.

      Had the fire been set intentionally? Had Gregor suffered because of her?

      “Are you a relative of Mr. Kominski’s?” the woman from