The Blonde Identity

by Ally Carter

Here’s the thing about waking up with no memory in the middle of the night, in the middle of the street, in the middle of Paris: at least you’re waking up in Paris.

Really, the only bright side was when she realized that her dress had pockets.

“Oh, I’m fine!” (She wasn’t fine.) “I know where I’m going!” (She had no idea where she was going.) “I don’t need any help.” (She absolutely needed help.)