Page 11 of Critical Mass
“Natalie.” He said her name like an accusation. Or maybe a prayer. “What are you doing here?”
The question sparked something in her. Anger cut through the fear. “What amIdoing here? You’re the one who drove to an abandoned marina in the middle of nowhere. I should be asking you that question.”
“You followed me.” Not a question. A statement.
“Yes, I followed you!” Her voice rose, echoing across the parking lot.
The sound of water lapping against the dock seemed unnaturally loud in the silence that followed.
“My father called me and planted all these doubts in my head about you,” she continued. “What was I supposed to do?”
Timothy—or whoever he was—put his gun back into his waistband.
Gun? Why did he have a gun? She’d never seen him with a gun before.
Then he ran a hand through his hair. She’d seen him use that a gesture a hundred times when he was stressed. But now even that familiar movement, one that had once seemed so endearing, felt like a lie.
“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice dropped. “It’s not safe.”
“Not safe?” She laughed, but it came out bitter and broken. “Nothing about you makes sense, Timothy. Your vague job, the apartment I’ve never seen, the way you disappear for days at a time. And now you’re meeting someone at a closed marina in the middle of the night?”
She hated how her voice cracked on the words, hated the tears that threatened to spill.
She’d come here for answers, not to fall apart.
Sheespeciallydidn’t want to fall apart in front of Timothy. She didn’t want him to know how much he’d hurt her.
He didn’t deserve that satisfaction.
“Is there someone else? Is that what this is about?” The question tasted like poison on her tongue.
“No.” His answer was immediate and firm. “Natalie, no. There’s no one else.”
“Then what? What are you hiding from me?”
The breeze picked up, sending a chill across her skin.
Or maybe the chill came from the way Timothy was looking at her—like he was calculating something, weighing options she couldn’t see.
Finally, he licked his lips.
She braced herself for whatever he was about to say.
“My name,” he said finally, his voice rough, “isn’t Timothy Shaw.”
The words hit her like a physical blow. She’d suspected he was lying about something, but hearing him admit it still felt like the ground had dropped out from under her feet.
“What?” The word came out as barely a whisper.
“My name is Hudson Roberts.” He said it like a confession, an apology. “And we need to talk.”
Everything went still around her.
Hudson Roberts.
The name meant nothing to Natalie, and somehow that made it worse.
Three months of knowing him, three months of falling in love, and she didn’t even know his real name.
