But Alex turned, voice as cold as the wind as she asked, “What are you doing in Europe? Why were you at the bank? Why . . .” They must have gone full circle because she came back to, “What the hell are you wearing?”
It was so surreal, like looking at a mirror in a fun house. Or a fairy tale. And for a moment Zoe wasn’t sure if she was blessed or cursed as she stood there, seeing down the road not taken at what her life might have been—who she might have been—if things had gone a different way.
“We-we’re . . .” She didn’t want to stammer but she couldn’t help herself. “We’re identical. I went to the bank because we’re identical.”
“I gave you that box number in case I died! Which, news flash, not dead yet! So I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here, but you’re going home. Now.”
Zoe felt small in the presence of someone who was exactly her same height. She felt small and weak and fragile, and she hated it. It was way more fun being the woman Sawyer thought she was. But Sawyer was a stranger and Alex had obviously known Zoe since the womb, so clearly Alex was the expert. And Zoe hated that, too.
“You’re on the first flight home, so help me—”
“Fine!” Zoe didn’t realize she was shouting until she saw the shock in her sister’s eyes. “Great. I’d love to go home. Where is home, exactly? Just point me in the right direction and I’ll get out of your hair.”
“What are you talking about?” Alex seemed leery then. Like maybe a black ops division of the CIA had perfected body-swapping technology. Maybe some next-gen cloning or . . . Maybe Zoe was an enemy agent who had been given extensive plastic surgery and a little light brainwashing? Alex looked like she didn’t know what was happening but she wasn’t going to trust this weird chick with the knockoff version of her designer face. There could only be one Alex and she had no patience for any cut-rate imposter, even her own sister.
“The first thing I remember is waking up in Paris three days ago,” Zoe said softly. She was far too tired for shouting.
“What?” Alex asked. Then, worse, Alex laughed. “You mean . . . You think you have amnesia?”
“No. I know I have amnesia! Because I woke up in a snowbank with a bruise on my temple and nothing in my pocket except some lip balm and a few euros and a half-used tissue . . .” She took a deep breath. “And something that looked like a hotel key but was really a membership card for a fancy-pants bank in Zurich.” She threw her arms out wide. “And now we’re here.”
Alex stepped closer, fire in her eyes. “Where did you get the card?”
“That’s the part of that story that interests you? Not the bloody snow or the—”
“Where did you get the card?”
Now Zoe really was confused. “You gave it to me.”
“Of course I didn’t. Now where did you get it?”
“I. Have. Amnesia!” Maybe Zoe wasn’t in a nightmare. Maybe she was in a time loop, because no matter how many times she said the words they never got any less crazy.
“This is crazy,” Alex said, proving her point.
“I know!” Zoe snapped. “My entire memory is nothing but head wounds and bloody knees. Uncomfortable shoes and people shooting at me. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t—”
“This is real life.” Alex rolled her eyes and something in the gesture hit Zoe like a punch; an avalanche of déjà vu was starting in the mountains and barreling her way fast. “This isn’t one of your books, Zoe!”
The avalanche was there, sweeping over her and carrying her away.
Her life didn’t come back to her. Nothing flashed before her eyes. There was no dream sequence or montage set to a remixed-but-timeless pop ballad. It was more like Zoe was a magnet that had just felt metal for the very first time. Something was close. Something was right there, rising to the surface of her consciousness until . . .
“I like books.” As profound epiphanies go, that one was, admittedly, lackluster, but something was still growing inside of her and, suddenly, Zoe knew. “I write books.”
And Alex . . . Alex just gave her a dry, quizzical look, so over Zoe and so bored. She was probably grateful none of her cool spy friends could see them then. She would have acted like she didn’t even know Zoe, loser that she was. But Zoe wasn’t a loser. Zoe was . . .
“I’m not a high-end jewel thief . . .”
“A what?”