Page 76 of Shattered
“The Dahlia District,” I whispered. “Or the gallery. I want to have a proper goodbye.”
He forced a smile, a way of declining my request. But I hardly noticed it with the thoughts warring in my mind.
The bandaged hands. The same obsession with authenticity. His anger at the club member. The executioner’s mask.
Rourke’s mask.
“Goodnight, Melissa,” he said, moving towards the front seat of the car.
How did he know my real name? “My name isn’t Melissa,” I shouted reflexively.
He froze, his hand gripping the handle. Then he straightened himself and turned to me.
“Yes, it is,” he said. “Don’t lie about that too.”
My name could have been short for Melody, or Melonie, or Melinda, or even Melville. It could have been plain Mel.
How did he know?
Rourke was the only one who called me Melissa.
“Who told you?” I asked.
Garrett stared at me for a moment, his eyes cold. “You did,” he said.
