“He’s right,” Massey said. “That said, it is not a good idea to stay. Ms. Wilcox, you are an official suspect in a homicide investigation. If you refuse to return home and cooperate, the United States can and will invalidate your passport. You will not be able to travel outside of Morocco for the rest of your life. If you break any laws here, and from what I hear from my friend”—he gestured at Idrissi—“it sounds like you already have, then the Moroccan police can prosecute you at any time, and the US embassy won’t be able to intervene. And let me assure you, Ms. Wilcox, American prisons are much more comfortable than Moroccan prisons.”
Idrissi smiled. “I’d say Moroccan prisons are more comfortable than the electric chair your country is so fond of,” he said.
Massey rolled his eyes.
“Okay, wait, this is crazy,” said Florence. “I didn’t kill anyone.” As soon as she said it, she realized that wasn’t true. But they weren’t talking about the car crash. “I wasn’t even living in Cairo in February, or whenever you say this happened.”
Massey said, “According to your tax returns, you purchased the property at 174 Crestbill Road two years ago, and you’ve listed it as your primary residence ever since.”
Florence stood up and walked to the window. It had started drizzling again.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It was all slipping away from her. Of course this was how it would happen. Everything had been handed to her, everything she’d ever wanted, and now it was getting yanked away. A joke. The universe’s proffered handshake pulled back at the last minute.
She’d done everything she was supposed to do: She’d worked hard in school; she’d gotten a scholarship; she’d spent all her free time writing, with little to no encouragement; she’d put in long hours at a pointless job. All for nothing. And then someone like Amanda Lincoln got everything she wanted—everything they both wanted—with none of the struggle. Had it been so absurd for Florence to think that her reward had finally come due, after all this time?
Apparently it had.
She sighed. “Here’s the thing.” She turned around. “I’m not Helen Wilcox.”
Idrissi and Massey exchanged a look.
“Pardon?” Massey asked.
“I’m not Helen Wilcox,” she repeated, gesturing to his file.
Massey neatened the papers on his lap and placed them gently on the table. “Ms. Wilcox, I’m sure you have a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this. You just need to tell the police what it is, and then you can go on with your life. You can even return to Morocco if you like.”
“No, I’m serious. I’m Florence Darrow. I was born in Daytona Beach, Florida, in 1993. You can look it up. Helen was my boss. But she—she’s gone. And I was just pretending to be her for a little while. It was just kind of a joke.”
“A joke,” said Massey flatly.
Idrissi cut in: “At the hospital five days ago, you told me your name was Helen Wilcox.”
“Well, not exactly. You just started calling me that and I didn’t correct you.”
Idrissi sighed. “Your credit cards, your driver’s license, and your passport say Helen Wilcox. The rental contract for the car in the accident was in the name of Helen Wilcox. This house”—he gestured around him—“is in the name of Helen Wilcox.” He paused. “You have friends, here, I think. What do they call you?”
Florence looked up sharply. “Have you been watching me?”
“What name?”
Florence threw up her hands. “Helen! Okay? Helen Wilcox! I know, I know how this looks. But I swear, I was just pretending.”
Massey said, “Consider things from our point of view, Ms. Wilcox. Which is more likely—that you lied about your name while you were injured in a hospital bed and among friends and on legally binding documents, or that you’re lying now, when it appears that you might be in a spot of trouble?”
“I don’t care how it sounds. I’m Florence Darrow. I just am.”
“Alright,” Massey said. “Can you show me some identification then?”
“I don’t have any.” Florence shrugged and emitted a shrill laugh. “I know it sounds crazy, but I don’t. It was all in the car when we crashed. It’s probably in the middle of the Atlantic ocean by now.”
“Right,” said Massey, drawing out the word.
“Can’t you check my fingerprints?”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“No.”
“Then they’re not on file.”
Florence exhaled loudly but didn’t respond. They sat quietly for another moment.
“Wait!” Florence suddenly said. “Wait right here.” She ran upstairs and grabbed Helen’s passport from the top of the dresser in her room. Downstairs, she handed it to Massey triumphantly. “Look, it’s not me. Look closely.” He opened it warily and looked at the picture. He passed it to Idrissi. They both inspected the photo, glancing up at Florence to compare.
“I don’t know,” said Massey, shaking his head.
“It is not clear,” Idrissi agreed.
“Look at her nose.”
“Noses can be changed,” Massey said.
Florence snatched the passport back. She looked at the photo.
“It’s clearly not me,” she said, with dwindling conviction.
Massey held out his hand. She gave it back to him. “It doesn’t look a thing like me,” she said.
“Well, for one thing,” he said, “I can’t think of any good reason why you would have Helen Wilcox’s passport if you’re not Helen Wilcox, but listen, it’s not up to me to determine whether this is you or not. As I said before, this is a matter for the police.” He slipped the passport into his inside jacket pocket.
“Wait—you can’t have that,” Florence said. “Give that back.”
“Ms. Wilcox, given that you are wanted for questioning in a homicide case in the state of New York, I must inform you that I do in fact have the authority to confiscate your passport. I can, however, issue you temporary paperwork that will authorize you to fly to the United States and the United States only. There you will be met by a uniformed officer and brought to the Cairo police department for questioning. Let me ask you again: Is that something you might be interested in?”
Florence didn’t answer. She stared at the table in front of her.
Massey nodded as if she had answered. “Alright, please call me at my office if you change your mind.” He placed a business card on the table. “If not, well, like I said, I can’t compel you. But the United States will not issue you a new passport until this crime is sorted out.”
Massey stood up and started packing his files back into his briefcase.
“What now?” asked Florence, looking up helplessly.
“It’s out of my hands,” said Massey. “You should go home, back to New York. That is my advice. I hope you’ll take it.” Then he pointed at her bags at the foot of the stairs. “And if you plan to leave Semat, I would advise you to keep me apprised of your whereabouts. It will make things easier for you in the long run.”