“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’ve been in such a fog today. I’m having the hardest time placing how we know each other. Who are you?”
“Who am I? Are you sleepwalking?” She didn’t smile at his attempt at humor. “Okay,” he said in a more serious tone. “How about letting me in on the joke.”
“Danny has something to do with this, doesn’t he?” she said as she glanced around the lobby. “He’s not here, is he? Please, tell me he’s not here.”
“How could he be here?” He shook his head to clear it. Was it even remotely possible that Buzz’s wife had a split personality? Had recent stress caused some kind of abnormal blip in her psyche? He touched her shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay? Did you change your mind and call Buzz, I mean Danny, after all?”
She held up one hand. “Wait a second. Why would I call him when all I want is a little space to think? And for that matter, why did you call Danny Buzz?”
“He earned the nickname two decades ago when he knocked a beehive out of a tree and got stung thirteen times, which is why he always carries epinephrine with him—just a second, he never told you about the bees?”
“No. This happened when he was growing up outside Seattle?”
He felt like scratching his head. “Buzz grew up across the street from my house in Napa, California.”
“He told me he grew up in Seattle,” she said.
“Why would he do that?”
“How should I know? He said his stepfather piloted a ferry on Puget Sound and his mom was—is—a housekeeper. He and his younger half brother—wait a second, why did Danny send you here instead of coming himself?”
Something weird was going on. He lowered his voice as they’d begun to draw attention. “You called me, remember? You asked me to meet you here. You’ve been feeling threatened and you asked for help figuring things out. You went up to take a nap—”
“I can’t even get a room here.”
He studied her face for some sign she was messing with him, dissecting her delicate features, aware as he did so that she flinched under the scrutiny, obviously uncomfortable and ready to run. She tried to rake her hair over her face but it was too short.
What was happening? This was the same woman he’d watched walk down the aisle two years earlier to marry his best friend, the same woman who sat across from him two hours before desperate for his help. And yet, somehow, it wasn’t her either. She “felt” different, like a lost and impotent version of herself. Two hours ago she’d been Buzz’s wife and now she was a complete stranger.
“Did Danny cook this up?” she said in a whisper, and he could feel her anxiety leap to a new level. “Mother must have guessed I’d come here—but why send a stranger?” She looked toward the door before turning back to meet his gaze. “I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop pretending you know me and just be honest.”
“Wait a second,” he said, ignoring the fact that she’d mentioned her mother in the present tense when the woman had died years before, ignoring everything except her unmarred forehead. “Where are the scratches?”
“What scratches?”
“The ones you got when that boulder fell. Let me see your hands.” He caught her left hand before she could move away. “Nothing,” he murmured as he studied her palm. Her hand trembled in his grip and he released it. “Where’s your wedding band?”
“Do you mean that stupid engagement ring? Because that’s in my purse.”
“I’m talking about the wedding band Buzz gave you. It belonged to his grandmother.” He shook his head. “Sabrina, something is very wrong.”
“My name’s not Sabrina.”
He peered into her deep brown eyes and finally accepted she was as clueless as he was. With the realization came a giant wave of relief. Sabrina hadn’t morphed into a delusional head case and he hadn’t fantasized that her very essence had changed.
The relief was short-lived as the woman standing inches away narrowed her eyes. But when she spoke, her voice was soft. “Don’t you think it’s time you explained what’s going on?”
“I wish I could,” he said.
Oblivious to the hustle and bustle of the lobby around her, Sophie perched on the edge of an off-white chair and studied the man who had accosted her.
There was no denying he was better-looking than about 98 percent of the men currently walking on planet Earth, but if there was one thing she’d learned the hard way it was this: looks mattered exactly zero. What good were broad shoulders, a lean, fit body and very blue eyes if the person sporting these attributes turned out to be a lunatic or a manipulator...or both?
“I can’t believe you’re not Sabrina,” he said. “The likeness is incredible.”
“First things first,” she said. “Just who are you?”
“My name is Jack Travers. I’m a private investigator from California.”
“For real?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Why does that surprise you?”
“I don’t know. I guess you don’t look like one.”
“What does one look like?” he asked.
“Humphrey Bogart,” she answered without hesitation.
“Isn’t he a little dated for you?”
“My mother watches a ton of cable TV. I grew up watching The Maltese Falcon.”
“That’s a hard act to follow. Now, who are you?”
“Sophia Sparrow. Sophie. When you say this woman and I look alike, you’re talking in general terms?”
“Like eye color and height?” he asked and shook his head. “No. I mean identical, like clones, like twins. In fact, that’s the only explanation for your startling similarities and why I was so sure you were her.”
“Except that I don’t even have a sister let alone a twin,” she said. “In fact, I’m an only child.”
“So is Sabrina.”
“You said she’s your friend’s wife?”
“Yes.”
“You also said she felt threatened. What’s wrong? Is she in trouble?”
“I think so, yes,” he said, “but she talked to me in confidence so I won’t go into details.”
“You also mentioned a falling boulder.”
“Did I?”
Sophie wished he would stop staring at her. She tilted her head but no hair fell forward. Why had she chosen today of all days to cut it? She studied her hands to escape his gaze but looked back up because she wanted to know what he was thinking and so far she wasn’t sure. She only knew it was important to figure it out. Something strange was going on in many ways at the same time, leaving her confused and worried.
She’d driven to the coast for one reason—to think. And yet in the back of her mind she admitted that thinking about this mix-up was easier than thinking about herself.
With what sounded like an aha, Jack took his phone out of his pocket and fooled around with it for a second, then turned it so she could see the screen. “This is a photo I took at Sabrina’s wedding. The groom is my friend Daniel Cromwell. He’s currently in Antarctica. Take a look at the bride’s face.”
Sophie