Mirror Image
His futile tonality frightened her. However, she gave him a watery smile. “We’ll work on it together. Good night, Jack.”
She extinguished the lamp and lay down beside him. He didn’t respond when she placed her arms around him, but he didn’t turn away as he usually did.
* * *
Insomnia had become the norm since Carole had returned from the hospital. Indeed, these nights of wakefulness were cherished, for the night had become the best time in which to think. No one else was around; there was no motion and noise to clutter the brain. Silence bred insight.
What it obviously failed to instill was logic. Because no matter how many times the data was analyzed, the “logical” hypothesis was preposterous.
Carole wasn’t Carole.
The hows, whys, and wherefores of it mattered, but not to any extent like the indubitable fact that Carole Navarro Rutledge had been replaced by someone else. Amnesia was the only other explanation for the complete reversal from her former personality. That would explain why she had fallen in love with her husband again, but still wouldn’t account for the altered personality traits. Her current persona would only make sense if she were another woman entirely.
Carole wasn’t Carole.
Then who was she?
The question was tormenting because so much was at risk. The plan that had taken years to orchestrate was about to come to fruition… unless it was thwarted by an impostor. All the elements were in motion. It was too late to turn back, even if that was desired, which it wasn’t. Sweet revenge sometimes required bitter sacrifices. Vengeance was not to be denied.
Until the moment it was realized, however, this Carole, this impostor, must be watched. She seemed innocent enough, but one could never be too careful. But who she was and why she would want to assume another woman’s identity, if indeed that’s what had happened, was puzzling.
As soon as they returned home, answers to these questions must be sought. Perhaps one more carrot should be dangled in front of her just to see how she would respond, whom she would run to. Yes, one more message was called for. She mustn’t be put on the alert that she’d been found out. The partner in this would certainly agree. Carole’s every move from here on must be scrutinized. They had to know who she was.
A starting point would be to learn who had actually died
in the crash of Flight 398… and who had lived.
* * *
“Morning.”
“Hey, Jack. Sit down.” Tate motioned his brother into the chair across the breakfast table and signaled a waiter to pour him some coffee.
“You’re not expecting anyone else?”
“No. Carole and Mandy slept late this morning. I got up, went out for my run, and was dressed by the time they woke up. Carole said for me not to wait on them, but to come on down. I hate eating alone, so I’m glad you’re here.”
“Are you?” To the waiter, he said, “The number three breakfast. Make sure the bacon’s crisp and substitute hash browns for the grits, please.”
“Certainly, Mr. Rutledge.”
“Pays to have a famous brother,” Jack commented as the waiter withdrew with his order. “Guarantees better service.”
Tate was leaning back in his chair, his hands forming loose fists on either side of his plate. “Mind telling me what you meant by that crack?”
“What crack?” Jack dumped two packets of sugar into his coffee.
“Asking me if I’m really glad you’re having breakfast with me.”
“I just thought that after yesterday—”
“Yesterday went great.”
“I’m referring to the meeting with Dirk and Ralph.”
“So you’re still pissed because I fired them?”
“It’s your campaign,” Jack said with an insolent shrug.