“I don’t know who he was, but he wasn’t Sean Connor,” Jessie says the next morning.

She didn’t mention anything about this last night at home, just that she was still working on it. I think she waited until she could get more information, but mainly because she thought it was more proper to update Nate and I together.

It also could be that she doesn’t feel that severed heads make for great pillow talk.

“What does that mean?” Nate asks, taking the words out of my mouth.

“It means he was not who he says he was. His identity was faked; there is no Sean Connor that could possibly fit his description. The only ones that might be close are alive, heads fully intact.”

“Did you learn where he lived?”

“I know where he said he lived,” Jessie says. “I got it from your amnesia group. It was an address in Clifton, but unfortunately, he never actually lived there. The residents of that address are an elderly woman and her daughter. They’ve owned the house for thirty-five years, and they never heard of Mr. Connor.”

“What about the credit card receipt that said he was in the bar that night?” Nate asks.

Jessie shrugs. “I can’t speak to that, because I don’t know his real name, so I can’t access his credit card accounts. But based on what I’m seeing, I think you can safely assume that everything he said to you was a load of horseshit.”

Jessie has a delicate way of phrasing things.

“We need to run his DNA,” I say. “And get a sketch out to the media, to see if anyone comes forward and identifies him.”

“What I can’t figure out is why he came to you in the first place,” Nate says.

“He obviously wanted to draw me into investigating Carlisle, though I don’t know why. Of course, there is still a remote chance he was telling some version of the truth.”

“How do you figure that?” Jessie asks.

“Well, he could have legitimately thought he might have been responsible for Carlisle, and wanted me to find out. But then he could have left himself an out by faking his identity; that way if I learned that he was the perpetrator, he could have vanished without me knowing who he really was.”

“You believe that crap?” Nate asks.

“No.”

We don’t have much to do at this point, so I leave Nate to wait for more information, while I go to the coffee shop where I had breakfast with Connor, or whoever he was. I’m in luck in that the waitress who had taken care of us is there.

“Excuse me, I had breakfast here the other day…” is how I start, but she interrupts.

“Full stack of blueberry pancakes, sugar-free syrup, and coffee. You cleaned your plate.”

“How did you remember that?” I ask.

She shrugs. “It’s a gift.”

This woman might well be out of central casting for the perfect witness. “I was here with a guy…”

She nods. “Just coffee, black.”

“Right. Did you recognize him? He said he’s been here before.”

She shakes her head. “Nope. Never laid eyes on him. First time here.”

“He recommended the pancakes,” I say.

“Then someone told him they were good, because he’s never been in this place. I’ve been here twelve years, so unless it was before that…”

“No, I’m sure it wasn’t. Can I talk to the owner?”

“That’s what you’re doing,” she says.

“You’re the owner?”

“For the same twelve years. Don’t look so surprised.”

I’ve run out of questions to ask her. “Your pancakes are really good.”

“Thanks. Waffles are even better. If the guy was a regular he would have known that.”

This conversation has erased all doubt for me; there is nothing that Sean Connor told me that was true. I would bet that he was not even an amnesia victim. When you lie about pancakes, you’ll lie about anything.

But if he wasn’t an amnesia victim, then he was only at the group meeting because I was.

I was the target, but I don’t know who was targeting me. And more importantly, I don’t know why.