Taken: The MISTAKEN Series Complete Third Season

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opyright
© 2015 by Renna Peak

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oin
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“
T
hat’s beautiful
, Becky.” The woman smiled at me after she looked at my painting. “I can really see what you were going for there. All those trees … it must be somewhere in the west?”

I nodded, admiring my work. “Montana. Western Montana.” It hadn’t even been nine months since I had been there. But those nine months—the memory of that time—seemed like a lifetime ago. In those nine months, I had taken on a new name—a completely new identity. And my painting skills had finally progressed beyond that of a preschooler.

“It’s really beautiful there.” I’m sure I sounded almost wistful. It had to be because I
did
feel wistful about it—about that time. That one week of passion I had shared there with Brandon was going to have to last me a lifetime. It would have made anyone wistful.

The woman touched me on the shoulder and walked over to talk to the next student in the class. I had only started taking the painting class at the tiny community center here a few months ago. Painting had never been something I had been very good at, and it was nice to feel like I had finally succeeded at something. And it was pretty lucky that a town this small offered painting classes at all.

“You have a gift, you know.” The elderly woman sitting next to me leaned in closer. “Not everyone can make watercolors come alive.”

I couldn’t help but smile and nod. I had always sucked at painting, but it had been something I had wanted to learn for a long time. All my other attempts had just been … thwarted. I had been distracted during my previous attempts, and that distraction was no longer present in my life, not that that was necessarily a
good
thing.

“It’s a recent turnaround.” I smiled again, turning in my chair to face her. “How’s Claire?”

“Almost over her stomach bug. I’m sure she’ll be well enough for her next lesson this weekend.”

“Good.” I turned back to my painting, deciding against putting the cabin in. It would have been too much. “That great-granddaughter of yours is getting pretty good at playing piano.” My old life might have been in the past, but at least I was still able to share my love of the piano with the little girl.

I saw her nod from the corner of my eye. “We need some more men in this class. You should be able to meet men in painting classes, don’t you think?”

I cleared my throat, trying not to roll my eyes.
Not the kind of men I need in my life.
But that definitely was not a detail I needed to share with my friend.

She continued. “I’m still trying to get my grandson to come to this class. I’ll give up my seat next to you if he ever decides to show up.”

“That would be great, Martha.” I rolled my eyes that time, holding back the long sigh I was sure was also going to come out. Living in a small town had its advantages, but the meddling of its citizens wasn’t one of them. It was easier to just try and placate her with the false hope that I would
ever
date her grandson. Because there would never be any dating again for me.

“He told me the other night at dinner that you could pass for Jenna Davis. Isn’t that funny?” She grabbed my forearm, laughing.

“Hilarious.” I waited for my pulse to quicken or my breaths to start coming too fast, but neither happened this time. It was getting easier—living this lie. The first few months in this small town had been much more difficult, but now, it almost didn’t affect me. I still had to think about it—about the fact that I really
was
Jenna Davis, or at least
had
been. I let a little more of that old me go every day. And learning how to paint made me much more Becky Hanson than Jenna Davis, because Jenna had
sucked
at painting. And the further I could get away from the old me, the easier my life became. And easy was good. Easy kept everything the way it should be. Keeping things easy prevented anyone from looking too closely at me or from asking me too many questions. Agreeing with people, brushing off the questions—that was what made my life easy.

“He said if you dyed your hair brown you would look enough like her to be able to call that reward line they had set up. He said he’d split the money with you if they’re still offering it. It’s not a bad idea.” She turned to me, waggling her eyebrows. “You and Adam could use that money for your honeymoon, if I had my way.” She smiled. “But that red hair gives you away. There’s no way to cover
that
up.”

I smiled and began putting my things away. I had always hated dying my hair. It was the one thing I had been happy to give up when I had first left Virginia—the home I had grown up in, even though my father was a senator from California. In my old life—my pre-Brandon life, I had been a faux-blonde because that was how my fiancé preferred me. Now, I was a faux-redhead, but I guess it looked fairly natural. Giving up makeup, gaining a few pounds … it all added to the new me. It helped make me Becky. And as long as no one ever suspected I was Jenna, I was safe and Brandon would be safe, too.

I shoved my art supplies in my bag, grabbed my painting and stood up. Martha followed me out the door and onto the street outside, walking with me lock step.

She turned to me again, smiling. “Everyone’s talking about her again, you know.”

I lifted a brow, turning to face her. “Who?”

“Jenna Davis. You have to admit, there is a resemblance there.”

My brow furrowed and I turned away from her. “Where?”

She threw her head back, laughing. “You. You and Jenna Davis. Maybe you’re a Hennessey from way back. You never know—those Hennesseys couldn’t keep it in their pants any better than the Davis men could.”

I felt goose bumps rise on my arms. I almost wished I was wearing a sweater, suddenly feeling chilled despite the warm July day. “I thought Jenna Davis wasn’t a Hennessey.”

“Oh, they’re all inbreeds. Those socialite types. You know that.” Her laugh became almost a cackle. “Besides, that test only said that Marian Hennessey wasn’t her mother. It didn’t say Jenna wasn’t a Hennessey.”

“Right.” I wished again for a sweater, sure I was feeling a breeze pick up, even though I didn’t see any branches moving in the trees that lined the walkway through town.

“Her father is back in the damned presidential race, so she’s back on everyone’s mind. Did you see that announcement yesterday? He said it was a tribute to her. To Jenna. That maybe she’d decide to come forward if she was still alive.”

The familiar ache in my chest came back as soon as she mentioned my father. I stared straight ahead, trying not to let my voice turn too shrill. “He’s back in the race?”

She nodded, hurrying to keep up with my quickened pace. “Yes, so everyone’s talking about the Davis clan again. You’d think they’d just leave that poor girl alone. Everyone knows she’s either dead or long gone by now. Probably traipsing through Europe on her trust fund.”

Traipsing through Europe didn’t sound too bad right about then. But I hadn’t touched my trust fund or contacted anyone from that life in a long time. Long enough to have learned how to take care of myself, anyway. I knew that even talking about this—about my father, and Jenna and presidential races—was treading on dangerous territory. I didn’t need anyone finding out my secrets—I had worked too hard to let the charade of my new life go now. Taken too many risks. Run for too long. And I damned well wasn’t going to give it all up now. Not after everything else.

She interrupted my thoughts. “But I suppose if she used her trust fund, they’d be able to tell where she was and then she wouldn’t be missing anymore.”

“Exactly.” I slowed my pace, not wanting to tire out the woman who had become something of a close friend over the past several months, even if she was always trying to fix me up with her grandson.

My voice was flat. “I’m sure she’s dead.” It wasn’t as though my statement was far from the truth, not that I wanted to discuss it. Not that the way I delivered that message could signal anything to Martha but my unwillingness to discuss
her—
me. Jenna. As far as I was concerned, Jenna Davis
was
dead, hopefully never to return. I suppose I knew somewhere inside myself that I would have to face that life again someday, but I knew it would be a long, long time from now.

She nodded and we turned the corner, heading to her beachfront house. Her home was beautiful, almost exactly the kind of place I had envisioned myself living in someday. Raising children. Growing old. But it wasn’t mine, and I wouldn’t ever live in a place like this now. Not with the kind of life I led now—working at a minimum wage job and only earning enough to feed myself. I was fortunate to have met Martha at the community center—we had somehow come to talk about the piano, and I had ended up giving her great-granddaughter lessons. It was exactly how I had pictured it—a piano in a living room with a huge window overlooking the ocean. Only it wasn’t my living room, and Claire wasn’t my child. And this wasn’t really my life, but it was better than the alternative. It was better than living in fear all the time and much better than being on the run. So much better than running for my life.

We walked up to her driveway and stopped. A young man stood in the driveway, washing her car.

“Tommy, you didn’t have to do that.” Martha smoothed down her white hair after calling out to him. “You’re just such a little sweetheart.” I thought that if she hadn’t been old enough to be the handyman’s grandmother, she would have been all over him. It was possible that she really
was
all over him despite her age—Tommy had that reputation around town. She turned, motioning to me, almost as if she sensed that I recognized her attraction to him. “You’ve met Becky?”

“Of course.” He set down the hose and sponge he had been holding, wiping his hands on his white t-shirt.

I smiled when his eyes met mine, reminding myself that he was okay. He wasn’t involved in anything other than fixing broken gates. And apparently, washing the cars of the people who hired him to fix their gates.

He was almost a fixture at the motel where I worked. Something there was always breaking, and he seemed to always be there to repair whatever it was. And to ask me out. Forty-eight times, at last count. The thought of dating made my stomach turn—I just wasn’t ready, and I knew I probably never would be. It wouldn’t be fair to Brandon. It didn’t matter that Tommy was beautiful, with his sun-bronzed skin and his almost-blonde hair, and that in another life, I might have been attracted to him. In this life, I just wasn’t. Or maybe I wouldn’t let myself be attracted to him or to anyone—not after what I had been through. I knew I could live out the rest of my days alone. I told myself that I could, anyway, even if there were meddling, small-town neighbors like Martha around who were always trying to fix me up with someone. It was sort of funny that Martha always tried to dissuade me from pursuing Tommy—she only wanted me to date her grandson. It was typical small town stuff—the type of stuff that kept the gossip mill churning. The kind of stuff I wanted nothing to do with, and one of the reasons I hadn’t participated in any of the town activities until recently. Keeping to myself was safest—it kept people from asking too many questions and made it much less likely that I would be recognized. And it protected everything that needed to be protected.

“Your hair looks pretty today, Becky.” His green eyes blazed at me and he smiled again. “Have you had lunch? I have an extra sandwich…”

I interrupted him. “I have to get back to work. My shift starts at one.” It was a lie—I was off on Tuesdays, and I was pretty sure he already knew that. Everyone in this town knew everything about everyone else, so my work schedule was public knowledge. I just wouldn’t let myself get close to him. Or any other guy. I knew I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. Not that Brandon had been a mistake, but I knew there was no way I would ever be able to feel anything even close to what I felt for him. I knew that what we had was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing, and I knew it wasn’t going to happen with anyone else. If Martha had known about Brandon, I was sure she would have agreed with me. I could almost hear her telling me that lightning never struck the same spot twice.

He interrupted my thoughts. “I’ll walk you back.” He ran up to the house to turn off the water and ran back just as quickly.

Martha turned to me, lifting a brow. “Maybe you could come over for dinner tomorrow? Adam will be here.”

I forced a smile. “I’ll think about it.” The attempted fix-ups never ended. I figured they probably never would, and it wouldn’t even matter who the guy was. There was just nothing better to do in small-town Maine than to try to fix up the new girl with the local bachelors. I had already heard the stories about Tommy. He probably saw me as another conquest—it seemed like he had a history with
every
woman in town, even though it seemed like he was barely old enough to have a reputation at all. I had no intention of becoming another notch on his belt, and I was pretty sure he was already aware of that. I had refused his offers for dates enough times.

I tucked my painting under my arm and started to walk back toward the motel. Tommy almost skipped to catch up with me—he was almost a little
too
eager with me, and today, it was making me feel almost squeamish. There was something just a little off about the way he acted, but I was never able to quite put my finger on it.

“I know you’re off today. It’s Tuesday. You have every Tuesday off.” He turned to me, grinning. “Was that just an excuse to get away from old Martha? To get me alone with you this afternoon?”

I rolled my eyes and turned away from him. “Sure. Tell yourself whatever you want.”

He laughed. “Are you free for dinner tonight?”

“No.” I didn’t have any plans other than my usual microwave meal, but I wasn’t going to let myself agree to a date with him. Not now, and not ever.

“How many times does that make?”

I turned back to face him, forcing myself not to wince. He might have made me squeamish, but he was nothing if not persistent. “Forty-nine.”

He nodded, rubbing his chin. “And how many times did you say I needed to ask before you’d say yes?”