“You don’t understand,” I said. “Men like you can make phone calls and doors open. Men like Ryan close doors and tell everyone the woman trapped behind them is hysterical. Those papers are the only proof I have that I’m not whatever he says I am.”
Noah became motionless.
For the first time, I noticed pain beneath his composed exterior. It wasn’t sympathy. It was the recognition of something familiar.
“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I don’t understand all of it. But I understand being hunted by a story someone else wrote about you.”
Before I could question him, a burst of sound came through Mara’s earpiece.
She listened carefully, then turned toward Noah. “Problem.”
Such a simple word seemed inadequate for the terror that immediately followed.
“What problem?” he asked.
“Someone took one of Ms. Collins’s suitcases off the carousel before our team reached it.”
I forgot how to breathe.
“Which one?” I asked.
Mara glanced down at the device in her hands. “Gray hard-shell case. Pink ribbon on the handle.”
