Chapter 3

Sarah's pov

I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror and knew Sarah Walsh had to die. Not literally, but the woman looking back at me was too clean, too polished, too obviously a cop. If I wanted to get close to the Steel Vultures, I needed to become someone else entirely.

The plan had been forming in my head for three days since Tommy's funeral. Marcus was handling the official investigation but progress was slow. The Steel Vultures weren't talking and witnesses were either scared or bought off. At this rate it would take months to build a case, if they could build one at all.

I couldn't wait that long. The anger inside me was growing stronger every day and I needed to channel it into something useful before it consumed me completely. Getting inside the motorcycle club was risky but it was the only way to find out what really happened to Tommy.

First step was creating a new identity. I'd done undercover work before but never anything this deep. Usually it was a few days pretending to be a buyer or a girlfriend to get information. This would be different. This would require becoming someone else for weeks or maybe months.

I started with research. The Steel Vultures frequented a bar called the Vulture's Nest on the south side of town. It was their unofficial headquarters and neutral territory for other clubs to meet with them. The bartender position had been posted online for two weeks with no takers, probably because people were smart enough to stay away from motorcycle club businesses.

That job was perfect for what I needed. Bartenders heard everything and saw everyone. They were part of the scenery, invisible unless someone needed a drink. If I could get hired there, I'd have access to conversations and information that could lead me to Tommy's killer.

But Sarah Walsh couldn't apply for that job. Detective Sarah Walsh with her clean record and police academy training would raise red flags immediately. I needed to be someone with a rougher background, someone who belonged in that world.

I bought a box of hair dye from the drugstore. Platinum blonde, the kind that would completely change how I looked. Back home I spread newspapers on my bathroom floor and read the instructions twice before mixing the chemicals.

The process took three hours. First bleaching my natural auburn hair until it was almost white, then applying the blonde color. The smell was awful and burned my eyes but I kept working. When I finally rinsed out the dye and looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself.

The blonde hair made my green eyes look brighter and changed the entire shape of my face. I looked younger, less serious, more like someone who might work in a dive bar instead of a police station. It was a good start but not enough.

Next came the tattoos. Real ones would take too long and leave permanent evidence of what I was doing. Instead I found a place that specialized in temporary tattoos for theater and movies. The artist was a punk rock girl named Zoe who didn't ask questions when I told her I needed them to last at least two months.

"What kind of look are you going for?" she asked while setting up her equipment.

"Bad girl. Someone who's been around the block and doesn't take crap from anybody."

Zoe grinned. "I can work with that."

She gave me a dragon wrapped around my left forearm, a skull with roses on my right shoulder, and a compass with "Lost but not Broken" underneath it on my lower back. The tattoos looked completely real and would fool anyone who didn't try to scrub them off.

While the tattoos dried, I worked on the background for Ivy Blake. She was twenty-six years old, originally from Portland, with a history of bad relationships and dead end jobs. She'd been arrested twice for bar fights but never convicted. She had no family and no permanent address, the kind of person who drifted from town to town looking for work.

I practiced Ivy's voice until it became natural. Slightly lower than my normal tone with a rougher edge, like someone who smoked and drank too much. I changed my posture too, slouching instead of standing straight, walking with more attitude and less purpose.

The hardest part was the clothes. Sarah Walsh wore conservative suits and sensible shoes. Ivy Blake needed leather jackets, tight jeans, and boots with enough weight to do damage if someone got out of line. I spent an entire afternoon shopping at thrift stores and vintage shops, building a wardrobe that looked like it had some history behind it.

When everything was ready, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror and practiced being Ivy Blake. I introduced myself to my reflection, told the story about growing up in foster care, explained why I'd left Portland after my last boyfriend turned violent.

"Name's Ivy," I said to the mirror, letting some attitude creep into my voice. "Ivy Blake. I'm looking for work and I don't mind getting my hands dirty."

The woman looking back at me was a stranger. Blonde hair, leather jacket, visible tattoos, and an expression that said she'd been through hell and survived it. She looked like someone who might apply for a job at the Vulture's Nest and actually get hired.

I practiced different scenarios. How Ivy would react if someone hit on her. How she'd handle customers who got too drunk or too grabby. How she'd respond if someone asked about her past or why she was in town. Every answer had to be consistent with the character I'd created.

"Where you from, sweetheart?" I asked my reflection in a deeper voice, playing the role of a curious customer.

"Portland," Ivy answered without hesitation. "But that's ancient history. I'm here now and that's all that matters."

"What brought you to our little town?"

"Needed a change of scenery. Sometimes you gotta leave everything behind and start fresh, you know?"

The conversation felt natural. Ivy was becoming real in my head, a person with her own history and motivations. That was important because if I was going to fool dangerous people, I had to believe in the character myself.

I spent hours perfecting Ivy's mannerisms. The way she would light a cigarette, even though Sarah Walsh had never smoked. How she'd lean against a bar, casual but alert. The way she'd look at men who tried to intimidate her, like she was calculating how much damage she could do before they realized their mistake.

By the time I was satisfied with the transformation, it was nearly midnight. I was exhausted but also excited. Tomorrow I would go to the Vulture's Nest and apply for the bartender job. Tomorrow Sarah Walsh would disappear and Ivy Blake would take her place.

I took one last look in the mirror, practicing Ivy's confident smirk. The woman looking back at me was tough, street smart, and dangerous when she needed to be. She was everything Sarah Walsh couldn't be in her official capacity as a detective.

But as I turned away from the mirror, something strange happened. For just a split second, I could have sworn I saw something impossible. My reflection's eyes seemed to flash gold, bright and otherworldly, like an animal's eyes caught in headlights.

I spun back to the mirror but my eyes were their normal green. I blinked hard and looked again. Nothing. Just regular human eyes in a face that now belonged to Ivy Blake.

I shook my head and told myself it was the stress and exhaustion playing tricks on me. Grief could do strange things to people and I'd been under enormous pressure since Tommy died. My mind was probably just finding ways to cope with everything that had happened.

But even as I tried to rationalize what I'd seen, something deep inside me whispered that it had been real. That for one impossible moment, something else had been looking back at me through the mirror.

Something that wasn't entirely human.