Jodie Bailey - Hidden Twin

No one was catching her unaware.

Something buzzed against her side. Amy jumped and threw the messenger bag off her shoulder, then stared down at the gray fabric as she tensed.

Her cheeks heated as the side pocket buzzed again. It was only her cell phone, still switched to silent mode so she could teach her classes without interruption. Not a bomb. Not a kill shot.

Yep. She was going home. Stepping back inside and pouring more caffeine into her system with another cup of coffee was a bad idea after all. She scooped the bag up by the strap and glanced around, praying no one had noticed her brief dance of panic.

She’d probably never get over the sensation that someone was breathing down her neck or staring at her through a sniper’s scope, seconds away from ending her life. Every time she turned the ignition in her car, she held her breath and waited for the explosion that would finally end her life of terror.

The phone had stopped buzzing by the time she retrieved it from the pocket and ducked deeper into the shadow of the building to see the screen.

Seventeen missed calls.

Adrenaline shot through her with a lightning bolt of pain. Seventeen missed calls, all from a blocked number.

No . The word tried to push past the sudden lump in her throat, but fear overpowered it. Only two people called her from a blocked number. And if one of them had called seventeen times in the fifty minutes she’d been in class then, for better or for worse, her entire world was about to splinter again.

Either she was free, or she’d been found.

Both options were equally terrifying.

It took her four tries to dial the number she’d committed to memory three years ago, her fingers missing the numbers, her eyes constantly roaming the area, reading the faces of students and faculty members who were heading to their cars after their just-dismissed classes. No one seemed to be paying attention to her.

The call only rang once before a clipped voice answered. “Amy Naylor?”

“Yes.” The voice that had so authoritatively commanded her class only minutes earlier could hardly be called a whisper now, fear choking her into silence. Whatever the voice said next, nothing would ever be the same again. She pressed her back against the brick building and kept watching the flow of students passing by, leading normal lives, certain of where they were headed now that they were free for the weekend.

She envied them.

“It’s me. Deputy Sam Maldonado. Are you in a secure location?”

Amy shook her head before it registered that the deputy US marshal on the other end couldn’t see her. “Not exactly, but I can get to my office.” She turned and headed up the breezeway at a quick clip, feeling as though a million eyes watched her and safety was too far away. She could lock herself inside her office, close the blinds and wait for whatever came next.

“Is Deputy Marshal Edgecombe with you?”

“No.” She stopped at the glass doors to the building, her fingers on the handle. If they’d sent a marshal to pick her up, then this wasn’t good news. This level of caution and urgency could only mean one thing—her identity was compromised. Her stomach twisted as chills swept her skin. Danger was heading her way, and this was a college campus. If Grant Meyer’s people came looking for her with guns blazing...

Her brain wouldn’t even consider what might happen to the innocents around her.

Amy slowed and turned on her heel, staring in the direction of the parking lot. Cradling the phone between her shoulder and her ear, she ran her finger absently across the face of her watch, the cracked crystal rough against her finger. “I can’t go to my office. There’s no way to protect any students on this campus if someone decides they’re in the way. And I don’t see Deputy Edgecombe.” She’d recognize the man anywhere. He stood out in a crowd. At well over six feet, his laughing dark eyes and ready humor belied the seriousness of his job as her contact with the US Marshals’ Witness Protection Program.

Along with Deputy Maldonado, Deputy Edgecombe was her first point of contact and had never failed to answer her call or be by her side if needed. If he was supposed to be here, he’d be here. Then again, he was the kind of man to operate under an abundance of caution. It was possible he was waiting in the parking lot for her to exit the building so he could escort her out without causing a scene or raising suspicion. “What’s going on?”

“I’m two minutes from your location. Get into your office and get secure and I’ll pick you up there.”

Maldonado was coming for her? Amy’s knees threatened to give way and drop her to the sidewalk. They’d met on multiple occasions, the first only a few months ago when she’d nearly compromised her own identity. It had been her fault that time, for trying to leave Georgia against WITSEC rules. Through a series of coded communications she never should have been involved in, she’d learned that Grant Meyer had gone on the rampage. He’d been hunting down anyone who could testify against him or his human-trafficking ring, including Amy and another witness she’d hidden herself, a young woman in the country illegally who refused to talk to the authorities.

Amy hadn’t gotten very far.

Deputy Sam Maldonado was a retrieval specialist, part of the elite team that had been sent to find her and bring her back to safety, fighting to keep her alive so she could testify against Grant Meyer. Since that day, he’d been right beside Deputy Edgecombe, always there and watching, as though he and his team didn’t trust her not to run again.

She’d learned her lesson. When Layla Fisher hadn’t been at the house Amy had secured for her in Virginia, Amy had panicked. She’d left herself cut off with no protection and no idea of whether or not she’d been discovered. Sam and his team had found her and brought her back to safety.

If Sam was on his way, the Marshals Service was more concerned than his calm voice would ever let on.

“I’m not staying here. It’s too dangerous to others for me to be on campus.” With quick steps, she headed to her car, fear for her own safety evaporating with the need to protect the students roaming the area around her. “I’m going to my apartment. It’s only a few minutes away. You can meet me—”

“For your safety, do as I say.” The last four words were heavy with emphasis.

Amy kept talking, her eyes landing on a dark green four-door sedan sitting next to hers. The band around her chest released. “I see Deputy Edgecombe’s vehicle. It’s parked next to mine. He’s here.” She killed the call and jogged toward the vehicle, her muscles weak with relief, even as she acknowledged it was only temporary. She was about to be on the run for her life again.

Her feet slowed as she neared the car, the back of her neck prickling with an unease that refused to be ignored. Something was wrong. The deputy marshal didn’t exit his vehicle to approach her the way he usually did when they met, always acting cheerful and friendly, as though they were two friends meeting for a social visit. Even then, Amy had read his eyes multiple times and seen them scanning the area for threats.

This time, he stayed in the car. The glare of the late afternoon sun off the windshield tinted the glass red and prevented her from seeing inside, and the driver’s side window appeared to be rolled down.

She scanned the line of cars as she drew closer. None of the other reflections off the cars seemed to have that red tint to them.

Her feet rooted to a spot between a sports car and an SUV only a few feet away from Deputy Edgecombe’s car. Bile pushed into her throat and almost gagged her. No. No, no, no . She clapped a hand to her mouth to hold in the scream as realization hit. That couldn’t be blood. It couldn’t be. She was rooted to the spot. She should check on Deputy Edgecombe. She should run. She should—