You'll bleed out by then, a morose voice answers.

I can't stop the groan that comes out of my mouth. It's muted by the thumping of a helicopter. I look up, feeling like I'm living in a nightmare. The blades are slow...so slow. The helicopter lowers in the parched field out in front of us, kicking up dust.

"Is it them?" I hear myself ask. I don't even know who 'them' is. I can't think straight anymore. All I can do is look at Merri.

Her eyes are so wide. Her words sound very slow; unreal. "It's the border patrol." Her grip on my left arm tightens, and I struggle to keep the black to the edges of my vision. Her lips move, and I try to pay attention. She frowns, and I try to shake my head. I feel her hand on the side of my face.

"Evan, do you have those pa.s.sports?"

I nod-so slow. I feel like I'm underwater. I raise my right hand to my chest, where the pouch is still strapped below my shirt.

Got to stay awake. Got to stay awake until I show them our pa.s.sports. I'm going to need to explain this to Merri.

"Evan." I feel her hand on my back. "Are you okay?"

"Never...better, honey." Before the black takes over everything, I reach under my shirt and get the pa.s.sports out.

"Give them these," I hiss, "and tell them we're married."

I hold onto Evan's blood-soaked back and stroke his wild, dark hair. The pa.s.sports are lying in the gra.s.s at my feet. Out in front of us, only twenty or thirty feet away, are two border patrol officers, each carrying an automatic rifle. I don't know who they are or what their agenda is, but there's nothing I can do except pray they'll help us.

Evan hasn't pa.s.sed out yet. It takes a lot for him to pa.s.s out. Right now he's got his left arm wrapped around my right knee and his face is pressed against my side. Every so often he'll mumble something that sounds upset, but I can't understand him.

The skin of his arms is cold and clammy. There's an exit wound just below his collar bone-I'm able to see it because his shirt is ripped open there-and that's good I guess, but he's still losing a ton of blood.

The agents are running, and I steel myself for the possibility that they're in the cartel's pocket. They're close enough for me to see their faces. One is short and broad, with red hair and freckles, and the other one is slim, with buzz-cut blond hair. Both are frowning. Both lower their guns as they get closer. I scramble for our pa.s.sports as I let emotion wash through me.

"Ma'am, I'm Agent Frank Burns with the United States Border Patrol," the blond says. "Identify yourself."

I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, I start crying. It's adrenaline crying, so the tears come easily and quickly overwhelm me. Sobs punch through me, and Evan groans as I jar him. The idea that I hurt him makes me cry harder.

When they're so close I can see sweat beads on their faces, I thrust our pa.s.sports at Agent Burns and grab Evan closer. "You've got to help us! We were coming through the checkpoint and...oh my G.o.d, these people shot my husband! He's bleeding really bad, please! You've got to help us now!"

Agent Burns glances over Evan and I, then opens one of the pa.s.sports and frowns at it. My heart rate does double-time and I get a dizzying head rush. As his bushy eyebrows draw together, he sticks the pa.s.sport between his teeth and opens the other one, like we're at a traffic stop and we have all the time in the world. After a long look at the second pa.s.sport, he shoves them both into his partner's hand. Behind them, the ragged hum of the helicopter's blades shifts its tone a little and I worry it will leave.

The redhead takes both pa.s.sports and opens the top one. I sob harder, letting myself get lost in the fear that they won't help us.

I'm confused when the redhead cracks an ironic little smile. "Carlson?" His eyes search his partner's face as my heart thuds in my chest. Carlson. Why did he say that name! Do they work for him? Oh my G.o.d.

Agent Burns turns his brown eyes to me and wiggles one eyebrow. "Cross Carlson, huh?"

I blink at him, not having any idea what he means.

He nods at Evan. "He wouldn't by any chance be the son of California's Governor Carlson, would he?"

The governor of California? His son? My brain is moving in slow motion. Are they asking me if Evan is Drake Carlson's son?

I shake my head. Tears are pouring down my cheeks.

"Is he..." I shake my head again. I have my mouth open to say of course he's not, and then I picture Drake's face. It was harder and older and his eyes weren't blue, but Drake had such a pretty mouth. Like Evan's.

"Oh my...yes." I hiccup a sob before I can get another breath, and then I'm nodding frenziedly. "Yes, he is. He is, and that means you have to help us! You have to take us to a hospital! Right now!"

The redhead frowns, looking me up and down like I'm a bug he wants to squash. "And you're the wifey?"

"I'm his wife," I grit. The words feel like barbed wire in my throat. "Now will you help me get him to the helicopter? We don't have time to wait!"

Agent Burns looks me right down to the bones. "If you weren't who you are, we'd bring you in for questioning, Mrs. Carlson. You look a h.e.l.l of a lot like a woman who's wanted for murder in Guadalupe Victoria. Tied up with the Cientos Cartel. I bet that's why they shot your husband."

I nod my head, playing on the confusion that's bursting in my chest. Confusion about Evan, but the guard takes it as confusion over what he's saying.

I flick my eyes to his again, and he shrugs. "Bring 'em in, Arnie." My knees are shaking with relief when he turns back toward the chopper. Evan moans, and the redhead, Arnie, comes around to Evan's other side. Evan is- No, not Evan.

CROSS!.

The man clinging to my leg is Cross Carlson, playboy, black sheep son of Governor Drake Carlson.

He moans as he's hoisted to his feet and draped over Arnie's broad back. The agent starts toward the helicopter, but I can't seem to get my feet to move.

Cross Carlson. My Evan is a Carlson.

I hold my head, feeling like I'm going to pa.s.s out. When I think about the governor sending someone to find me after two years-sending his own son-I almost want to give myself to the cartel.

It's NOT ENOUGH, I want to scream. It's not enough that Drake sent someone to save me now! That he finally realized the mistake he made with me. It's not enough! After what happened before I left Jesus...

"d.a.m.nit!" I sink down into the dirt, holding my chest and gasping as I struggle not to totally break down. I want Evan...but he's no one! "Cross Carlson..." I sob the name. I don't want him! I don't want a Carlson anywhere near me!

I put my hands over my eyes and stare down at the dirt as my body trembles and my stomach roils.

"Ma'am, you coming?"

For the longest time, I can't look up.

"Mrs. Carlson!"

Who am I?

Missy King.

I'm Missy King. Just leave me here!

Drake Carlson didn't give a d.a.m.n. Sean didn't give a d.a.m.n. My father didn't give a d.a.m.n. n.o.body ever has. Shame at who I was-at who I am-rolls through me like poison. Cross never cared. He only wanted to lure me to the States. To his father. "Oh G.o.d..."

"MA'AM!"

I'm sobbing again as I glance up and out across the field. The guard looks annoyed. The sight of Evan's body slung over his shoulder pierces me, because I care about him. I care about him and he's Cross Motherloving Carlson.

I'm really not sure that I can follow them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

Seconds later, Arnie drops to his knees and dumps Evan to the ground. Across the field, I can hear Cross-Evan-Cross- coughing violently. The sound makes my whole body go cold, but I still can't move.

Tears flow down my cheeks, dripping down my neck and soaking my shirt collar. As I watch the agent pushing back Cross's head and bending over him, I want to yell at him to be gentler. But I don't speak or move. I'm rooted to the ground by wrenching, soul-deep disappointment.

What did you think, Meredith? That 'Evan' loved you?

I start to sob again, fully aware, even as I do, that Cross is fighting to breathe and I'm a selfish b.i.t.c.h.

I want to go to him.

I can't.

I can't go with him. If I do, I'll just be Missy King again. It's true that I'm Missy King here, too, but at least in Mexico, I took control of things. I ran away from Jesus. I helped kids at the clinic. I learned ma.s.sage therapy. If my only choices are being repossessed by Drake or dying here, I think I should just die here as Merri, I turn and finally I have the momentum I need to move somewhere. I throw my legs out in front of me, sprinting toward the road and Cross's motorcycle. The thumping whirr of the helicopter blades is a roar now, and I imagine that behind me they're loading up. About to leave. I fist my hands and run harder, telling myself that this is my only choice. I can't be Missy King again. I can't go back to Drake Carlson. Not even for his son.

That's when I hear my name-my real name: "Meredith." It's like he knows I want to run.

But that's impossible.

I start to count aloud. I'm not turning around and I don't want to hear him-but there it is again.

"Meredith!"

His strangled, half-choked voice is barely audible, but I can hear it, and it sends a jolt through my whole body. I'm panting, half sobbing. I can't be Missy King, I remind myself. I won't be Missy King again!

I reach the bike and wonder if I remember how to start one of these things. I wrap my hand around the handle, and that's when I notice the blood all over the seat. I want to think of myself-of what I have to do-but all I can think about is how he clung to me in the shower, begging me not to leave him to face his pain alone.

I can't leave without making sure he's okay.

When I turn around, I see him, not on his way to the helicopter, but clinging to Arnie and limping toward me.

"Meredith?" I can't hear him now, but I can see my name on his pretty lips. And as I walk closer, I can see that there's blood on his lips, too. The guard is waving, looking at me like I've lost my mind.

Cross's face is pale as snow. His brilliant blue eyes look almost black against his bloodless skin.

Holy c.r.a.p, he's bleeding out for me.

I rush toward him. If I tell him to leave, maybe he will. Maybe Arnie will make him go.

I get within a stone's throw and he moans my name again.

"I'm sorry," he rasps. His glazed eyes struggle to focus on my face as his words slur. "Don' leave me. Please Merri...don't leave me."

That's when he pa.s.ses out.

I try to convince the guards to take us out of El Paso, but they tell me Cross is losing blood too fast. Immediately afterward, I feel terrible for even asking, but I'm scared. We're way too close to Mexico for comfort, and I don't think it'll be hard for the cartel to figure out where we were taken.

During the brief flight to the hospital, I give them as much of Cross's medical history as I can, focusing mostly on what I know about his neck. If they have to put that breathing tube down his throat, they might need to know to be careful.

It's like being in the Twilight Zone, holding his hand as the chopper's de facto medical officer starts an IV, and rea.s.suring her that all the scars on his hands and in the crook of his elbows don't mean he's a drug addict. He just had a bad motorcycle wreck a while back.

This helicopter isn't really equipped for landing at a hospital, but because of Cross's last name, they make some special arrangements and I'm told we are landing on the roof in ten minutes.

I want to ask the agent who's acting as a nurse questions about what happened after we left-what happened with the cartel-but I don't dare.

The agent/nurse, named Lisa, rea.s.sures me that 'my husband' should be okay.

He wakes up only once, to insist no one give him any narcotics. I stroke his hair and tell him I've got it covered. With all the energy I have left, I'm trying to play the role of his wife. Now that I'm on the helicopter, I can't afford to have any of these people doubting our story. When his eyes flutter, I can tell he wants to talk to me. I'm glad he's too weak. For right now, I'm not allowing myself to think too much about the fact that he's a Carlson. I just need to get him to the hospital.

As soon as we start to descend over the roof, Cross's eyes flutter again. The nurse tells me it's because his blood pressure is pretty low, but Cross is looking at me, trying to tell me something. Finally he grits, "Marchant," followed by "Love...brothel."

During the months I lived in Vegas, I met a few great women who worked at Love Inc. I happen to know Marchant Radcliffe is the brothel's owner.

"You want me to call Marchant Radcliffe?" I ask, confused.

Cross coughs, and the nurse tells him to stop talking, but he's stubborn. His eyes hold mine for just long enough to croak, "My...friend."

It's weird to think of 'Evan' as a real person to begin with, but it's even weirder to think of him as Cross Carlson, friend of high-rolling Marchant Radcliffe. Luckily, we're b.u.mping down on the roof, so my thoughts are directed elsewhere.

As soon as Cross's cot is hauled out of the helicopter, we are whisked down in an elevator to what I can only a.s.sume is an operating room. When the army of doctors and nurses leaves me in a pale blue plastic chair just outside the stainless steel doors, I take a deep breath and go in search of a free phone.

I find one, as well as a computer accessible only if you pay it quarters. A kind-looking nurse slips me four of them as I sit down. I mutter, "thank you" and look up the brothel's phone number.

As I dial, I consider asking for an old friend, an escort named Geneese Loveless, but when the polite receptionist answers, I ask for Marchant and I tell her it's an emergency. That his friend Cross Carlson is in one of the ORs at the University Medical Center in El Paso with a gunshot wound.

I hang up before she has time to go find the pimp himself.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

I open my eyes to a blaze of white light, and within seconds I'm choked by panic. I can see arms, torsos, and faces moving over me and I know where I am. In a hospital. I thought I was out of the hospital...but maybe I'm not. Oh G.o.d. Oh f.u.c.k. What happened?

The voices around me get harsher, more urgent. I can feel someone holding my legs down. Someone else tries to hold my head still, and I can hear a soothing voice telling me I'm okay, but I know I'm not.