LITMIR.BIZ

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I tried the name out for the first time. It sounded as foreign and removed from me as the name Katherine—as any name I might have pulled out of a hat.

      My hand was shaking so, I only barely managed to set my coffee cup down on the table. “Is he sure?”

      “Naturally, he wants to see you in person, but…I think he’s pretty certain. He knew you. Quite well, he says. He knew…that you painted.”

      My eyes widened.

      “And he brought along a photograph.”

      “Of…her?” I couldn’t think of her as me.

      Not yet. It was all too unreal. I wasn’t even sure I wouldn’t wake up any moment and find out this was all some wild, impossible dream.

      “The similarities are striking.”

      I sensed he was holding something back. “And the differences? Are they striking, too?”

      It was the only time I ever saw Dr. Royce blush. “Naturally…there are some differences. The nose and jawline…” His voice trailed off.

      I had a feeling there were more profound differences, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear what they were. “This private detective—Greg Eastman—you say he knew me.”

      Dr. Royce leaned forward a little. I braced myself. As it turned out I needed bracing.

      “He’s not merely a private investigator. He’s a close friend of…your husband.” He exhaled a breath. “Nicholas Steele.”

      Husband? My heart began to pound and a line of perspiration broke out across my brow. I could feel the color drain from my face. I must have looked ghastly, because Dr. Royce’s expression became etched with concern.

      “It’s a lot to take in. Don’t expect to do it all at once,” he cautioned in that comforting voice he used whenever I became overly agitated.

      “Husband?” This time I said the word aloud, but it still didn’t sound real. Or possible. I looked at my bare ring finger. Had I worn a wedding band before the attack? Had it been stolen, along with everything else I had on me? But, I didn’t feel…married. I felt so…detached. I stared incredulously at Dr. Royce. “You say his name is…Nicholas Steele?”

      He was watching me closely. “Does it sound familiar to you?”

      I started to shake my head, but then I stopped abruptly, my heartbeat accelerating. “I…don’t know. It does…ring a bell. I…I think I’ve heard the name…before.”

      Could this be that first chink in the armor? If it was, I would have expected to see some sign of pleasure in the doctor’s face. I didn’t. If anything, his expression took on amore somber cast. I was crestfallen.

      “Nicholas Steele is a writer,” he said gently. “His novels are bestsellers. You might have seen some of his books here at the hospital or seen an ad for one of them in a newspaper.” He paused. “On the other hand, it is possible you may—”

      I shook my head then. “No,” I said, cutting him off. “I must have seen his name on a book or in the newspaper. It certainly doesn’t conjure up any images.”

      “Maybe that’s just as well.”

      As soon as the words had slipped out of his mouth, I could see that he regretted them.

      He smiled awkwardly. “I only meant…He writes horror novels.”

      By this point my head was swimming. How could I, the victim of a horror so traumatic I’d erased it and everything that came before it from my mind, be the wife of a famous—for all I knew, infamous—writer of ghoulish deeds? It was utterly perverse and incredible. I had to be dreaming—an insane nightmare.

      “You don’t believe this, do you? You don’t think I’m the wife of a man…like that?”

      Dr. Royce donned a fatherly expression. “Like what? Just because he writes horror stories doesn’t mean—”

      “I can’t even imagine reading a horror novel. I can’t believe I…I ever did.”

      “Wives aren’t required to be fans of their husbands’ work.”

      “You think I’m Deborah?”

      “I talked with Mr. Eastman for close to two hours. He was very candid, and he gave me a great number of details that I must say sounded credible.” He hesitated, and my body tensed. “He also told me that Nicholas Steele lives in a small town about three hours north of here. Sinclair. It’s in the Catskill Mountains.”

      I finally understood his remark back in the O.T. room when he was looking at my landscape. “I wasn’t painting any particular mountain. I…I couldn’t have been.”

      “Not on a conscious level,” he went on, in an almost-chatty tone. I knew he was trying to calm me down, but even he had to know that wasn’t a likely prospect. Still, though my head was spinning with it all, I tried to concentrate on his words.

      “Mr. Eastman has a getaway cottage up in Sinclair,” Dr. Royce was saying. But I wanted to hear about Nicholas Steele, this writer of horror stories, this man who was supposedly my husband. Or did I?

      “Eastman spends most weekends and summers there. He’s known Steele for more than five years. They’re tennis partners and Eastman says he’s even been acknowledged in a couple of Steele’s books for giving him technical advice. From what he said, I gather he and Steele are very good friends.”

      “And what about me?” There. I’d said it. Me. Not her. Me. It was the strangest feeling, yet not altogether unpleasant.

      I saw that Dr. Royce didn’t miss the shift in pronouns. “Nicholas Steele was, according to Eastman, a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor until he was off in St. Martin doing some research on a book and met ‘the girl of his dreams.’ That’s a direct quote from Mr. Eastman.”

      I found myself smiling, but then the incredulity of it all made me stop abruptly.

      Dr. Royce continued. “When he returned to Sinclair three weeks later, he had a bride with him.”

      “A whirlwind courtship, marriage on a tropical island…It sounds like something out of a romance novel.” But, better a romance than a horror novel.

      “That was just over two years ago,” he told me quietly. “And then, two and a half months ago, Deborah Steele disappeared.”

      “Disappeared?” I echoed, and shivered.

      Dr. Royce’s gaze fixed on me. “She left the house to catch the train down to Manhattan for a shopping trip and…and that was the last that was heard of her. Eastman says he spent a month working both with the police and on his own, trying to trace her. Finally he returned to Sinclair, since he thought it was possible she could have met with some kind of accident or foul play before ever getting on the train. After getting nowhere in Sinclair, either, he came back to Manhattan and—”

      “Saw the picture of me in his file.”

      Dr. Royce nodded. I found myself nodding back inanely, the whole time feeling completely adrift. Eventually I asked, “Now what?”

      “Mr. Eastman wants to see you, talk to you. I told him I would talk with you first and that I’d suggest you let all this…news…sink in for a day or two, or however long you need. There’s no rush. I know all this is an enormous shock to your system—”

      “Is he still here?”

      Dr. Royce hesitated. “Yes, but—”

      “I want to see him.”

      “Katherine—”

      “But it isn’t Katherine, is it?”

      He scowled. “For you, it still is. You can’t take on a new name and a whole new identity in a matter of minutes. It will take time. And

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