The things Lander had accused me of—they had been stupid, banal things, all easy for me to spin and explain. But what if he really does know my identity and he’s the one misleading me . . . again?

If so, did he share that information with his brother?

And if he did that . . . is this the beginning of some kind of setup?

My hands are shaking, but I hide it by busying myself with making space for the envelope in my purse.

Of course I could just hand the envelope back to Travis . . . and lose my job. And then my whole plan falls apart.

I steel myself and zip up my purse. “Shall I go now?”

“You don’t have any other questions?”

I meet his eyes, hold his gaze. He looks so much like his brother . . . but he’s so very different.

“No,” I finally answer. “You’ve told me all you want to tell me. My job is to do what’s asked of me.”

When he doesn’t respond, the room dives into silence. I can feel the chill of the air conditioner. With Lander I’m constantly having to remind myself that he’s the bad guy, but with Travis no reminder is necessary . . . and I can’t even put my finger on why that is. Is it simply because Travis is mean to his wife? I hate his wife. So what do I care how he treats her?

Although how he treats her highlights the fundamental truth about his nature. Travis is very successful and he’s reportedly very smart.

But underneath the money and the intellect, he’s just a bully . . .

. . . a bully who might be setting me up just like he and his family set up my mom. If he’s figured out who I am and what I’m trying to do . . . well, that would be motive enough.

The money is probably only adding a few ounces to my purse, but its significance is heavy enough to make my shoulder ache.

I think back to the blood on my mother’s clothes the night she was taken away from me. I’d give anything to go back in time and stop her from walking into Nick Foley’s house.

I wish I had never seen that blood. Or, at the very least, it would have been better if the blood that stained my mom’s pink shirt was the blood of a man who actually deserved to die.

The envelope is so damn heavy.

“When you’ve completed this errand you’ll come right back here.”

I nod, step backward. “I’ll see you a little later then, Mr. Gable.”

“Till then,” he says and turns his attention back to the papers on his desk. He’s done with me. I’m dismissed.

I feel unsteady as I walk down the hall, past the receptionist, and toward the elevators.