“Whoa, whoa.” A man in blue scrubs walks in. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home. I have to get home. My daughter—”
He interrupts me before I can finish. “I understand, but you’re in no condition to drive right now.” He pulls the chart from the side of my bed. “I’m Dr. Brown. Do you remember what happened?”
I shake my head.
“You were hit by a car. The driver said you ran out into the middle of the road. He called 911. You’re lucky you didn’t break anything. But you do have a nasty bump on your head. Luckily, the CAT scan was clear. No concussion, but since you were out for several hours, I’d like to keep you for a while more.”
I have to get out of here. “Absolutely not. I’m a doctor too. If my scan was clear, there’s no reason for me to stay.”
He starts to argue, but I put a hand up. “I won’t drive, I’ll call an Uber. But I really need to go.”
“I can’t keep you here, but I strongly advise you stay. If you leave, you’ll have to sign that you’re leaving against medical advice.”
“Fine.”
It still takes almost an hour for me to get out of there, but I’m feeling more steady now, and my Uber, a gray Volvo SUV, is waiting out front. My mind races throughout the twenty-minute drive to my house, hoping against hope that Valentina is there and the police aren’t.
When we pull up the driveway, the house is dark, and all is quiet. Once I’m inside, I sit at the kitchen table to catch my breath. I notice Cassandra’s handbag on the counter and jump up to grab it, dumping the contents onto the kitchen table. Her cell phone, wallet, keys. All of them are there. She took nothing with her. I unfold a piece of paper and see the name Lindsay and a phone number. I dial it.
A sleepy-sounding voice comes over the line.
“This is Julian Hunter, Cassandra’s husband. There’s been an accident. I found this number in my wife’s handbag.”
“Oh my gosh. Is Cassandra all right? She asked me to watch Valentina at the aquarium sleepover and bring her home with my daughter in the morning. The girls are still sleeping. Cassandra wanted to surprise you with a night alone.”
My daughter is safe, thank God.
“She’s fine,” I lie. “Can you give me your address, and I’ll come get Valentina?”
We make arrangements, and I end the call.
But where is Cassandra? She must have left on foot. Maybe she tried to flag someone down. She was either hurt or . . . could the trauma of what she saw have sent her into shock? I think of all the manipulation my therapy has done to her mind, her memory. One thing’s for sure: I can’t call the police. They might discover who she really is.
I stand up and pace. The new Cassandra must be out there somewhere. I’ve got to find her before she remembers—before she turns me in, and everything I’ve done over the past two years to mold her into Cassandra is for nothing. And when I do, I’ll make her believe that she’s crazy, that the best thing for everyone is for her to end her life. It will be sad for Valentina, but better for her to grow up with a loving father than for her new mother to remember the truth and put me in prison. Then Valentina would be utterly alone, thrust into foster care. There is no way I will let that happen.
Part IV
Present Day
??60??
Blythe
As the car sped along, Blythe opened the folder on her lap and reread the email Jim Fallow had sent to her in the morning. He’d looked into the past of Connor Gibbs, the dead owner of the nightclub, questioning those who’d worked for him, finally discovering the identity of the mysterious Blue Mirror stripper—a woman named Shannon Foster from Orlando. He’d attached a four-year-old article from the Orlando Sentinel. Blythe scanned the headline once again—“Police Investigating Murder/Suicide in Orlando Home”—and moved to the body of the article:
Orlando, December 26—Ernest Foster, a commercial airline pilot, killed his wife, their daughter, and his wife’s mother on Christmas Day, before taking his own life, investigators said Tuesday.
The authorities found the bodies on Monday afternoon after a call from another daughter, Amelia Foster, a photographer living in Boston who had arrived Christmas morning and found the bodies of her parents, grandmother and twin sister. She is the only surviving relative.
Investigators searching the house found Jean Foster, 49, in the living room with gunshot wounds to the head and chest, said the Orange County district attorney. Daughter Shannon Foster, 23, and her grandmother, Jeannette Everly, 70, were both dead of gunshot wounds to the head.