complaining that the pub tables lacked sufficient leg room underneath, and now she could see why. Her knees and Collier’s were close enough that if she shifted in just the right way, their knees would touch. As it was, she could feel the proximity through her jeans. She scooted her chair backward another couple of inches, and waited.
“I’m sorry about before,” Collier said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. When I saw you, I couldn’t...” He paused and took a deep breath. “We were told you were dead. That you had most likely drowned in the river.”
River. She squeezed the chair arms as recollections of her nightmares came to mind. Flashes of pitch-black water and air being sucked from her lungs. She had to take a deep breath herself as a reminder the image wasn’t real.
Even so, her voice still came out strangled and hoarse. “Chris told you about my memory?”
“He said you can’t remember anything before the past four months.”
“That’s right. The doctors at the hospital think I suffered a traumatic event that caused my memory to shut itself off.” Traumatic event being the term they settled on after their battery of tests failed to turn up anything else. “You said your wife was in a car accident.”
“There was a bridge collapse and your car—” she noticed he was already using the second person “—was plunged into the River Lochy during a heavy storm.”
Plunging into icy waters certainly qualified as traumatic and would explain her nightmares. Then again, drowning in dreams was also a well-established metaphor, or so she was pretty sure. “I had a broken collarbone,” she said out loud.
“I’m surprised you didn’t break more.”
Again with the second person. “You seem awfully positive I’m her. Your wife, I mean.”
“Because I’d know you anywhere.”
The way Collier looked her in the eye, with both his voice and his expression softening, knocked her off-balance. Here she was groping around in the dark, and he was looking at her with such certainty. Like he’d found a treasure while she was still trying to figure out the map. It left her longing to see what he saw.
“You say you know, but I would be a fool to simply take you at your word.” Or be misled by a pair of stormy blue eyes.
“Trust me, Rosie, the last thing I’d ever call you is a fool. I have photos.” He pulled out a phone and showed her a photograph.
Of her.
If it wasn’t her, it was her perfectly identical twin.
“There are more.” He swiped to another photo, this time a more sophisticated version of the same woman, with her hair in a twist and wearing a stunning black gown.
“The museum fund-raiser last May,” he said. “You looked beautiful in that dress.”
What she looked was unhappy. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
The next picture must have been taken the same evening, only this time her doppelganger was flanked by a woman with flaming red hair and a handsome older man with shaggy graying hair and spectacles.
“Those are your colleagues from the university. Eve Cunningham and Professor Richard Sinclair.”
She couldn’t help noticing the firm way the professor held his arm around her waist.
“You’re not in these photos.” She rubbed her forehead. A throbbing sensation started behind her eye.
“That’s because I took them.”
And they were on his phone. “Is there one of us together?” Anyone could get random photos from any number of sources. It would be harder, although not impossible, to fake a photo of both of them.
“A few.” Seconds later, she was looking at a selfie—and a terrible one at that, with looming faces and the tops of the heads cropped off. No mistaking her face though, right down to the annoying scar across the bridge of her nose.
Unlike the other photographs, their smiles reflected in their eyes.
“We took this two springs ago, when we were in the Lake District,” Thomas told her.
“Two springs ago? Nothing more recent?”
“I’m not much of a selfie taker.”
That was obvious. She studied the photograph closer. “We look happy.”
We. She was starting to believe him. Rosalind Collier. The name sounded strange, but had a comfortable feeling. The way a new outfit felt when it fit properly.
Thomas took back the phone and stared at the photo. “We were,” he said. “Happy. You loved being at our place in Cumbria, away from the city.”
Then why did his voice suddenly sound sad? Why was he staring at the picture with a pensive expression?
“You were supposed to be in Cumbria when you had your accident,” he murmured.
Oh. That was why. A wisp of a thought taunted her, hovering just out of her grasp. Something about ice or rocks, but it slipped back into the blackness before she could be certain.
She was certain of another thought however. “If I was supposed to be in the Lake District, how did I end up here, miles away? Fort William is miles away from Cumbria too. What was I doing there? It doesn’t make sense.”
“No one knows.” He tossed the camera onto the table where it landed with a thunk. “Best theory I can come up with is that you were headed toward Loch Morar. You did some field work there once. You’re a geologist,” he added when she frowned.
“Geomorphological features.” The words popped out of her mouth without her thinking. Thomas’s eyes widened in response.
“Exactly,” he said. “You did a paper on the glacier marks.”
She slipped a step closer to accepting his tale. As it was, the name Rosalind was already taking hold in her brain.
“What we don’t understand,” he said, “is how you got here. We searched for weeks and everyone was certain you’d been washed into the Atlantic. How did you end up here in the northeast corner?”
It would be nice if she could give him an answer. Who was she kidding? She wished she could give herself an answer. “I haven’t a clue. First thing I remember is walking along the motorway and being very, very tired. I didn’t have a clue who I was or what I was doing.”
“You don’t remember crossing an entire country?”
What she remembered was being terrified as she had stood on the hard shoulder shivering in the early morning dew. “I don’t even remember waking up that morning,” she told him. “A truck horn blared at me, and suddenly I was there.” Staring at the trees in a daze. “I was filthy. Disgustingly so.” Having heard she may have plunged into a river helped explain why her clothes had looked like they’d been rolled in a wet ball. “My clothes were torn, and I didn’t have any identification.”
“Dear
