The Girl in the Mirror(38)

There’s no one to compare me with anymore. No one with fuller breasts, a sweeter smile, virtue spilling out of her every pore. Twins grow less alike as they age, but that won’t happen now. Summer and Iris are back how they started. They’re one person again. One girl. And her name is Summer Rose.



I step from the police launch onto land, and this time the dizziness is real. The concrete pier is solid, but I want it to sway. I ought to be glad that I’ve made it to land, but my body craves Bathsheba’s rhythm. Ahead of me is a grassy area, iridescent green. Rich soil shows moist between the blades. I stumble toward it, escorted by Adam and the inspector, like a celebrity or a prisoner. I sink onto the softness and press my face against the green. I can barely stop myself from sucking at the wet soil.

My chest heaves with sobs, but I’m too dry for tears. I can hear the men behind me, their sorrowful murmurings, as if they’re watching a kitten die. And now Adam is holding something to my lips. A bottle.

I drink and drink. And when I am full to bursting, I pour the water over my head. My face, my neck, my body are instantly cool and fresh. My hair and sarong cling to my skin.

My thirst quenched, I take in my surroundings for the first time. We are on a street, a tropical street crowded with colorfully dressed people. Everyone is staring. I look around, half expecting to see my twin standing beside me.

An older woman steps forward, her face alive with concern. “Excuse me, sir, madam, I’m from the yacht club,” she says, her eyes darting between me and Adam, who is lifting me back to my feet. “We heard your radio transmission. We wish to offer our deepest sympathies. The yacht club is open to you both. There are showers and food, a place to lie down. You are our guests.”

“Thank you,” says Adam.

“I can’t,” I say. “I have to help the police.”

“Summer, you’re going to be no use to anyone if you don’t look after yourself,” Adam says. “Inspector Barbé has the log. Let him investigate. You need food and rest. For the baby.”

I steal a glance at Inspector Barbé, expecting him to object, but he nods his assent. “Take your time, Mrs. Romain,” he says. “We will handle the search now.”

I’m almost carried along the street. People swirl around me, and I can see they’re Adam’s people, the Seychellois. They have his open face, his strong build. Everything is fuzzy with heat. Coconut palms loom above me. We pass street stalls, and a warm meaty aroma pervades the fragrant air. “Food,” I say. “Food.”

“It’s all right, there’s food at the yacht club,” the man holding my shoulders says, and I start—it’s not Adam anymore. Where did he go? This man is dressed the same, feels the same, smells the same. His voice has the same deep cadence. But his eyes are a light gold, startling after Adam’s pools of dark brown.

“Don’t worry, Adam’s run ahead,” says the man. “I’m Daniel. I’m taking you there now. You’ll be back with Adam in a moment. He’s organizing someone to refuel the boat and take it to the marina. The yachties are helping you, they’re taking a fuel tank out by dinghy.”

A man and a woman in tattered clothes brush past us, gray-haired, skin like dark leather. The man holds a diesel carry-can, and the woman’s bright blue eyes meet mine. Her gaze is wise, sorrowful and kind, and I know they’re the yachties helping me—the poor young pregnant wife who lost her sister at sea.

I know the type: penniless yachties, always the first to lend a hand. I remember what Dad would have said. Nice is dumb.

“Are you a yachtie?” I ask Daniel.

“No, I’m Adam’s cousin, remember? We talked on the phone after your wedding.”

I stumble and lean harder on his arm. That way he won’t expect an answer.

We walk through a boatyard and enter a covered deck area overlooking the water where groups of people are seated for lunch. It’s noisy and casual; I can hear a mix of languages. This must be the yacht club. I’m ushered to a table. Food and drink appear from nowhere. A glass of milk of all things. It flows down my throat like nectar. I stuff some hot fries in my mouth. Daniel orders more milk.

People circle us, whispering. Everyone’s keeping their distance. Is it delicacy, or are they too harrowed by my story to look me in the face? Even Daniel keeps his eyes downcast.

This is going to be so much easier than I thought. I won Inspector Barbé over with my empty water tanks, and no one wants to question a pregnant woman. If anything gets awkward, I can cry or act crazy. I barely need to act.

“. . . all his family are here,” Daniel is saying. “He tried to keep your pregnancy a secret, but he was under so much stress. He was in a bad state after that phone call. He tried to call you to tell you about Tarquin, and then after that, nothing for twelve days. The yacht was nearly a week overdue, Summer.”

Tarquin.

Adam was calling me about Tarquin.

The fucking changeling. I’ve forgotten to ask about my stepson, no, my son. Jesus, I can’t even remember how old the brat is. And where the hell is he?

I’ve messed up big time. I should have been crying out for Tarquin the moment I got here. Where’s my little boy? I need my little boy!

But that’s not even the worst of it. Twelve bloody days, and I didn’t think to wonder what Adam was saying to me on that sat phone call. Or what I said to him.