The girl pulled the black bag away, revealing the ghost of Angela Chapman. Two years in captivity had stolen more than time’s entitled toll. Angela’s tired, dark-circled eyes dared only a second of connection before darting into the room’s corner. Her defined, athletic muscles had dissolved into the gaunt, pulled skin of an anorexic. Her hair held neither the youthful bounce of her high school photos, nor the rebellious spike of her college days, but hung limp in a dishwater bob. A severe scar crossed her right forearm. Another on her neck, where the remains of her hummingbird tattoo had been lost to raised pink tissue.

Caitlin reached her hand out. “I’m Caitlin Bergman and we’re getting out of here.”

Angela flinched away. “Why are you doing this?”

Not the reaction Caitlin expected.

“I don’t want to rehearse tonight,” Angela whimpered. “I just want to sleep. Take off the wig, Embower, please.”

“Rehearse?”

Christ, the wig.

Three days ago, before he’d impersonated Caitlin at the prison, Embower must have visited Chapman as well, workshopping his character on his captive audience.

“This isn’t rehearsal, Angela, and I’m not Embower. I left you the note.”

The girl backed closer to her bed. “This isn’t funny.”

“Isn’t funny?” Caitlin looked back down the hall. No movement, yet. “Angela, I know he dressed like me, but I am the real Caitlin Bergman. I’m a reporter from Los Angeles. I’m working with Lakshmi Anjale and your mother, Doris. I wrote a book—”

“Fallen Angels,” Angela said.

“Right, like in the playroom. That’s me. He had me in Paige’s room on the other side. He killed Paige, and he’ll kill us both unless we leave here right now.”

The girl’s eyes shifted back toward Caitlin’s face, daring another look.

Caitlin reached for her own hair, pulled. “See? Not a wig.”

Chapman’s head cocked to the side.

Shit, this is like talking to a puppy.

“Angela, I know you need sensitive handling right now. After everything he’s done to you, I know you need time to trust. But time’s the one thing we don’t have. How can I prove it to you? How can I get you out of this fucking room?”

Caitlin searched her knowledge of Angela for anything Embower wouldn’t also know but realized Angela’s disappearance had defined her.

Missing student, Angela Chapman.

Sainted daughter to Doris.

Black eye to the BPD.

Fuck buddy to Kieran.

Lesbian lover of Lakshmi.

Prize to Chad Branford.

What did Caitlin really know about her? What did she have in common with this young, wounded woman?

“Angela, look at me.”

Chapman’s eyes met hers.