Page 18 of The Stranger in the Mirror

“I have someone in mind. We’ll watch her for the next week and see what we see. In the meantime, can you take a glass or utensil she uses, put it in a plastic bag, and bring it to me? I’ll take a DNA sample.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ve got enough to get started now,” he assured her. “Let me do some digging, and I’ll let you know my progress.”

She rose. “By the way, I’d like to make sure this all stays between us. Can you make sure you only use my cell to contact me?”

He gave her his word, and she shook his hand and left. When she got to her car, she added him to her contacts under “Marie Fallow,” so it would look like just another tennis friend of hers if Ted or Gabriel saw it come up on her phone.

As she drove home, she felt a peace descend over her. Now at least she was doing something concrete. Gabriel would be upset if he knew, but in the end, he’d understand, be grateful even. That was her job, after all, to protect her children.

− 17 −

Addison

As I give the gate attendant my boarding pass, my stomach tightens. This is the first time I’ve flown with fake credentials. I’m always half expecting that the fact that I’m using a dead girl’s identity will be discovered, and the police will show up and take me away. But the attendant scans the pass and waves me in after a quick beep. We walk down the Jetway to the plane, and Gabriel puts our suitcases in the overhead bin. We’re headed to Florida for a few days so that he can meet with a potential new client.

“Aisle or window?” he asks.

“I’ll take the window, thanks.”

I’m about to sit when the cockpit opens, and the pilot walks out to greet the first-class passengers with a friendly hello. Suddenly I can’t speak. I’m freezing, and my hands are shaking. I stumble over my purse as I grab the side of the seat and fall into it, trying to even my breathing, hearing that horrible voice in my head again.Shut up, shut your stupid mouth before I shut it for you.I want to scream and hit something. Rage envelops me, and I clench my fists so tightly that my nails dig into my hands.

“Addison, what is it?” Gabriel leans down, concern in his eyes.

“Leave me alone,” I snap.

His expression is hurt, but I don’t care. I stand up, pushing past him, and pull open the door to the lavatory. Locking it, I put my hands to my mouth to stifle the scream that fights to explode. Igrab the roll of toilet paper and pull it, shredding the tissue as violently as I can. All I want to do is punch the wall, but even in my agitated state, I know better than to attract attention to myself. After a few minutes my breathing slows. I splash water on my face and leave the bathroom. When I sit down beside him, Gabriel doesn’t say anything, just waits for me to talk.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. Some sort of flashback. I didn’t mean to be short with you.”

“That’s okay,” he says kindly. “What did you remember?”

“I don’t know, it was too fast, but it wasn’t pleasant. I don’t want to talk about it.”

I’ve thought about seeing someone again to to try to make some headway with these flashbacks, but I tried that route before and all it did was frustrate me. The therapist I was seeing through social services tried her best to help me remember, and after six months we were no further along than when we’d started. The neurologist was no help either. I have to rely on myself to get better.

We’re quiet for the rest of the plane ride, my excitement about the trip doused by the darkness of the images in my mind.

***

When we arrive in Palm Beach, we drive straight to his family’s house, which turns out to be a beautiful place on the water with views of the sea from every window and porch. It’s not nearly as imposing as their home in Philadelphia, but I like the casual beachy feel of this house so much better. It’s filled with framed family photographs. I pick up a picture of Gabriel and Hailey, the two of them on their hands and knees building a sandcastle on the beach, their sun-browned shoulders touching. I glance at theother photos, chronicling their growing up years. Gabriel’s only sixteen months older than his sister, and as teenagers they almost look like they could be twins. They’ve always been close, and even now Gabriel’s condo in the city is less than a mile from Hailey’s. I set the photo back on the table next to one of the whole family. They’re sitting around a table in a restaurant. Gabriel’s arm is around Hailey, and she is leaning close to him, both of them with happy grins on their faces. The loneliness that follows me around every day feels even more crushing as I examine picture after picture.

While Gabriel is at his meeting, I spend the morning looking for seashells along the beach and sipping from a to-go mug of coffee. I feel such freedom, and a curious sense of familiarity that I haven’t had anywhere for the last two years. Did I have some special connection to the beach and the ocean in my other life?

When Gabriel gets back to the house in the early afternoon, he looks happy. His meeting went well, and that will result in a nice sale for the gallery. We’ve planned a day of gallery-hopping in Miami for tomorrow, including a visit to the Art Deco District in South Beach and the one I’m most looking forward to—Dot Fiftyone Gallery, with its incredible photography exhibitions.

Before dinner, we drive the forty-five minutes to Fort Lauderdale to visit the Jamali Gallery, spending a couple of hours examining the exquisite paintings, which look like they are from another time and place. The colors are extraordinary, but still when I discover the price on one that I especially love, I’m surprised at the six figures, even though I’ve seen some pretty expensive works go in and out of Ted and Blythe’s gallery.

At seven we head to our reservation at the Tradewinds, whereI’m awed by the stunning ocean views. Once we’re settled in, Gabriel looks across at me and raises his glass. “Here’s to us,” he says, and we both drink. “I’ve been thinking. What if we find someone who maybe specializes in helping people remember?”

I shake my head. “I’ve tried. Nothing has worked. Retrograde amnesia is a neurological—”

“I know, I know,” Gabriel cuts in. “You’ve explained that to me. But, Addy, sometimes I can tell that you’re remembering something, even if it’s just for a few seconds. What if you started writing down all these little things and talked to someone who could maybe help you string them together and come up with something?”

“Maybe,” I say, though I’m not ready to tell anyone about the terrifying images I see, even a therapist. I’m not sure I want to know what they reveal about my past.

“Okay. Enough said,” Gabriel says, and takes the conversation in another direction. “What do you think about coming back to Miami in December for Art Basel?”

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