Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1) Read Online Free Page A

considered it as though such an action had never once occurred to me, and then answered, “No.”
    The helicopter flew over the ocean and deposited me on a ship. From my description, Mike thought it sounded like an oil tanker. I stayed locked in solitude in a little cabin for what seemed like two weeks. Though Mike asked, I could give no details about the ship or its crew as I was never allowed out of the cabin. When the coast began to show lights, I descended a rope ladder to a waiting boat, and this boat landed on a dark, unpopulated shore. A man was waiting for me with a car and we drove through the night until he told me to get out, leaving me without explanation on the side of the road.
    I told the same story over and over, backwards and forwards without confusion. And while I could give details about the scenery and weather, I could offer no specifics such as license plate numbers or names.
    “Extraordinary,” the preacher declared.
    Mike showed neither belief nor disbelief. “Who were you staying with in Kenya?”
    I paused and looked away to make it appear I was lying, mumbling, “I don’t know.”
    The preacher jumped in saying, “But you know the address.”
    Even more uncomfortable, I answered, “No.” Such details would obviously be known, but they could also be confirmed, and that had to be avoided. It was best to let them think I was too afraid to say.
    The preacher was bewildered, but Mike showed nothing, he merely asked, “Do you know anyone’s name from Kenya?”
    “Alistair.”
    “He’s long gone,” the preacher announced.
    “Anyone else?”
    I covered my mouth and shook my head.
    “You stayed six months in this house, and you learned only one name?” Mike was harsh. He had at last decided to show an opinion about my story.
    The devil in me smiled. Mike hadn’t thrown his skepticism on the story as a whole, just the small part that I didn’t know anyone’s name. In doing so, he began to accept the bigger lie. I knew he wasn’t convinced, not entirely, but it was a start.
    I had my eyes fixed in my lap when Mike asked, “Is Alistair the only person you interacted with for six months?”
    “No.”
    “Who else?”
    “A man.”
    “What was his name?”
    I stopped breathing, looked away, and barely whispered, “I don’t know.”
    “Then how did you address him? What did you call him?” Mike thought he had me.
    I tried to make it apparent I was tearing my brain apart searching for an answer that would appease. I practically smiled when it occurred to me. My face lit up with hope that it would be believed. I said, “I called him master.”
     
    ~~~~~~
     
    I had no idea what I had just implied. I was fifteen and had never heard of submissives, slaves, gimps, or dominatrixes. I had read a couple fantasy novels with masters of magic, but I was mostly thinking of the martial arts where the respected sensei might be called something like Master Musashi.
    Of all the things, I had not meant to turn my tale into one of human trafficking and prostitution.
    I did not understand why the preacher sighed out, “No, child,” and appeared distraught.
    I couldn’t account for Mike’s abrupt discomfort, or his shift to gentle inquisition. He was staring at my left wrist. He’d been preoccupied with it for some time. He said, “Let me see,” and held out his hand.
    The fence at Wolf Meadows had left a three-inch fresh cut straight down my forearm from my wrist. It was bloody red and ghastly to see, but as far as I knew, the only way to suicidally slit your wrists was from side to side, so the injury running down my arm seemed entirely innocent.
    In under a minute, I had gone from merely confounding to fantastically tragic, and my smiling assurance that, “It looks worse than it is,” did little to dissuade Mike’s interest. I flipped my hand to get it out of sight.
    Mike asked, “When did you do that?”
    “Three nights ago.”
    His next question, “What did you do it with?” did not