Hidden Identity. Alice Sharpe

be right outside.”

      “Just leave the gun.”

      “Whatever you want,” he said, sorry about the sarcasm dripping in his voice but unable to curb it. He zipped open the flap, scooted outside and pulled a sleeping bag and the rifle out with him.

      “Adam,” she said, and he met her gaze. Her heavily shadowed eyes and fatigue sunken cheeks touched his heart. “I’m sorry. It’s not fair that I keep the tent. I’ll sleep outside—”

      “Not on your life,” he said. “And I’m the one who’s sorry. This whole thing is my fault. I’d give anything if it meant you weren’t in danger.”

      “You’ve been nothing but kind to me,” she said, her eyes now growing bright with tears. “You saved my life.”

      He reached inside and touched her face. To his relief, she didn’t sweep away his hand and instead covered his fingers with hers. “Don’t cry,” he said softly. “It’s going to be okay. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you. Now get some sleep, okay?”

      “Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up with all my memories intact,” she whispered.

      “I hope so,” he said, and once again fought the urge to kiss her. As he zipped the flap closed again, the lantern light inside the tent went out.

      He used the flashlight to make a bed on the ground, curled into the sleeping bag and closed his eyes. If she was determined to leave him, he’d have to let her go, but somehow he’d have to come up with a way to prepare her for the return of her memories. How would she handle the moment when she realized he was her beloved Steven, and that instead of dead and gone, he was very much alive and on the run?

       And maybe not so beloved anymore...

      He thought of the picture he carried. Taken in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, where they’d gone to picnic, they’d stood arm in arm while Chelsea trusted a stranger with her phone to take their photo. She had printed it out, written their names at the bottom, drawn in a small red heart and given him a copy.

      Every photo on his phone had been destroyed when his plane hit that lake. This picture was the one memory he allowed himself of the woman who had stolen his heart and now he’d gutted his opportunity to use it to reassure her by giving her his given name of Adam. Could he explain it away? Should he show her the note she’d written with the roses? Would it make things better or worse?

      Maybe it would shock her memory into hyperdrive. Or maybe it would force it further underground.

      I’ll sleep on it, he decided. But an hour later, he was still staring into the dark.