Page 104 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
The U.S. Marshal for the Western District of Tennessee, Kirk Leacham, made this statement today: ‘I am deeply disappointed to learn that one of our own has betrayed his oath of service and integrity, and has tarnished the reputation of the WITSEC program, which remains a sacred responsibility for all sworn U.S. marshals.
‘We are in the process of tracing the deputy marshal’s vehicle and phone, as well as any devices the woman may have on her, but our attempts have been hampered by Hurricane Petra. Cell towers are damaged in many areas and some of the roads are in bad shape. There really couldn’t be worse timing for an operation like this.’
The U.S. Marshals Office of Public Affairs released this statement: ‘The federal Witness Security Program, colloquially known as WITSEC, has been in place since the 1970s. In that time, we have only a handful of breaches and no participant who followed security guidelines has been harmed while under the active protection of U.S. marshals. The United States Marshals Service is committed to ensuring the woman is located, the offender is brought to justice, and that this incident remains an isolated one.’
She looked up, her eyes going to Ryan, wide with horror. Even as she stared at him, her brain was desperately trying to process what she’d just read.
Because it didn’t make any sense. She hadn’t been kidnapped. She’d gone with the marshal willingly, because her house had been broken into and her cover blown.
Ryan hadn’t been responsible for any of that. He hadn’t ransacked her place and painted that thing on the wall. There was no way he had.
Right?
She looked back down at the phone, an absurd hope blooming that this was all some kind of elaborate joke. One part of the article jumped out at her:he used his position within this multi-agency Task Force to access highly confidential information about the missing woman, including details about where she was living and working. He then used this information to gain her trust and convince her to leave with him.
It suddenly dawned on her that this was no joke. And while she didn’t understand the how or the why of it, she understood one thing.
She had to get the fuck out of here.
Right now.
The moment that realization hit her, adrenaline kicked in. She dropped the phone, and it landed with a splash in a pothole at her feet. She yanked open the van door and hauled herself into the driver’s seat. Her hand automatically went to turn the key in the ignition, but of course there wasn’t one. The engine was already running.
She rammed the shifter into reverse and when she looked up, she saw Ryan through the side window. He was still standing there in the road, looking profoundly confused. She had a moment again of thinking that this couldn’t possibly be real, that it was Ryan, the sweet, shy, uptight man who’d held her hand last night when she’d been scared. Who cared about her dance therapy dream. Who’d called her pretty. And who’d just told her he wanted there to be anus.
Then she saw his eyes flick to his dropped phone—and then to hers. In an instant, the confusion vanished from his face, replaced by dawning horror.
And just like that, she had her answer.
It was all true.
He jogged towards her. “Jessica, wait, please let me explain.”
She buried the accelerator.
The car shot backwards, bouncing over the potholed pavement. She shifted into drive and yanked the steering wheel around. The van turned in a wide arc, narrowly avoiding running off the blacktop and into the muddy verge.
She kept her foot on the accelerator, lurching over the rutted asphalt. She couldn’t see where she was going because the windshield was cobwebbed with cracks. The tears filling her eyes weren’t helping, either. She dashed them aside with the back of her hand. She was driving blind, but it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was getting as far away from Ryan Inglis as possible.
THIRTY-FIVE
Ryan sankonto the thick branch he’d just dragged off the road, his body heavy with exhaustion that had nothing to do with physical labor. He dragged a hand through his damp hair, then stared down at his phone, its mud-splattered screen balanced on his knee.
Then he lifted his head, straightening as his gaze followed the road ahead, the same road Jessica had disappeared down, leaving behind nothing but a set of muddy tire tracks.
Everything—everything—had turned to shit.
And now, looking back, he saw the truth with brutal clarity: his plan had never stood a chance. He might’ve told himself otherwise, clung to hope like a drowning man to driftwood, but deep down, he must have known. It was always going to end this way.
His name was a news alert now. A flashing, blaring warning to the world. He was a wanted man.
They were hunting him.His own people.
Except they weren’t his people. Not anymore.
He was the one running now.Hewas the fugitive.
A sharp, aching pressure built behind his eyes, and he squeezed his fingers against his sockets as if he could physically push back the flood of memories. The last three days had unraveled his entire life, ripped it apart at the seams. It all traced back to one moment—the phone call that had started this.
