FORTY-NINE

THE stranger was tall, over six feet, with sandy brown hair, and a rumpled trench coat hanging from his broad shoulders.

“Hi, Clare,” he said, expression guarded.

He looked haggard, as if he’d been through a battle, and rough stubble darkened his square jaw. But his ice-blue eyes were sharp, and they stared at me with spooky intensity.

“Oh, my God!” I cried. “You’re that detective, the one from the hospital!”

I tried to slam the door in his face, but this guy was ready. Using his body as a wedge, he forced his way inside.

Time to make like a cheetah and bolt!

I ran toward the steps, planning to lock myself in the master bedroom. Unfortunately, the physics of Matt’s oversized socks on a highly polished wooden floor didn’t resolve in my favor. I went down hard, right on my sweatpants-covered assets.

“Son of a bunny!”

“Are you okay?!”

Hands flailing, I warned him away. “Don’t touch me! I’m not going back to that hospital!”

“Take it easy—”

The rumpled detective extended his hand, but I got up under my own steam. Retying the robe over Matt’s sweatpants and T-shirt, I attempted to regain what was left of my dignity. Head held high, I faced him squarely.

“I mean it. I no longer want Dr. Lorca’s drug treatment. I’ll hire a lawyer, if I have to, but I’m not going back!”

“Good, because I’m not here to take you back.”

“You’re not?”

“No. I came to help you, Clare . . .”

Clare. The way he said my name—so personal, so familiar—made me uncomfortable. Ignoring the feeling, I stood my ground.

“What exactly do you mean, you came here to help me?”

“I have some of your clothes and shoes and things.” He pointed toward the half-open front door. “They’re in my rental car. Madame packed them.”

“Madame? How do you know— Oh, wait. Of course! I’m so sorry. I should have remembered!”

“You remember me?”

“I remember Madame saying something about a friendly cop sharing information with her. You’re him, aren’t you? The friend of the Blend?”

He swallowed hard. “I’m a little more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know how to break this to you, Clare. To be frank, I’m not sure if I should. Let’s just say it’s important that you know I’m here for you. That I’m in your corner . . .”

As the detective’s voice trailed off, his guarded cop expression began to melt into something more human. I could see the sadness in his blue eyes. It wasn’t pity for me. It was more personal, a kind of tender pain, like heartache.

That was when I began to get a clue.

I still didn’t know who this man was, but given Matt’s reluctant revelation, I deduced what he was.

“You’re a stranger to me,” I warned, backing up a step. “I don’t remember any history with you.”

“I know that.” He raised his hands, palms up. “Like I said, I came to help you. Not pressure or upset you . . .”

His words sounded sincere, and his voice was certainly kind. “So you’re really the one? I mean, the man I’m supposed to . . . ?”

The detective waited patiently for me to finish. But I couldn’t get the words out. Maybe if he just came out and said it.

I rubbed my forehead. “I don’t want there to be any confusion, okay? I’d like to get things straight in my mind and shake this bizarre sense of . . . I don’t know what!”

“Tell me what to do.”

“I want you to say it. State it out loud. Are you the man I’m supposed to . . . you know . . .”

“If you mean marry, the answer is yes.”

With a deep, brave breath, I stared hard at the stranger’s square-jawed face and searched my mind for any memory of him, some reason why he would want to drive all the way out to the South Fork in the dead of night, or look at me with such forlorn affection. But I felt nothing, other than pity for the poor guy.

On a rational level, I understood what was happening. On another level, however, I felt as though I’d walked through Lewis Carroll’s looking glass.

Some other me had met this man and fallen in love.

Some other me had agreed to marry him.

So where was this woman? Was she ever coming back? Would she be able to repaint all the pictures missing in my empty frames—or only some of them?

One thing did come back in that moment, an almost crippling sense of displacement. It returned in a powerful rush, just as it had when my grown daughter ran into my hospital room.

Suddenly, I had trouble breathing. My skin turned clammy and my heart began to race. The stranger didn’t appear to notice my changing state from gobsmacked surprise to dead-cold shock. Still focusing on my request that we get things straight, he took a step closer.

“I’m Mike Quinn, your fiancé,” he said, extending his hand, as if we were being introduced at a cocktail party. “Nice to meet you.”

It was the last thing I remembered before the great white room began to spin. Then everything went black.