Waking my computer again, I pull up a search engine and jot down a list of local private investigators, along with their contact info.
A few minutes later, I grab my phone and dial the first name on the list: G. K. Thomasson.
“Yeah.” A man’s voice answers in the middle of the first ring.
“Hi,” I say. My tongue moves like sandpaper in my mouth as I try to speak. I wasn’t expecting him to answer so quickly, or to answer at all for that matter. I was fully expecting to leave a voice message. I hope it isn’t a bad sign that he’s not too busy to answer the phone on the first ring.
“Who is this?” he asks.
“Hi, yes. I’m sorry. My name is Brienne,” I say. “And I believe someone has stolen my identity.”
“You need to contact the local authorities,” he says, “and if it’s across state lines, you’ll need to open a case with the FBI. You can do that online.”
“No,” I say, “this person—she hasn’t stolen any money or opened any credit cards.”
He’s quiet on the other end. I can practically hear his thoughts transmitting over the air.
“She’s . . . living as me,” I say, speaking slowly and carefully.
“And you know this how?”
“A key was mailed to me by mistake.” I swallow before continuing. I know how this is going to sound, and I already get the sense that he’s far from the type of man to believe much of what he’s told. But that’s what he does for a living. He looks above and below and finds the truth somewhere in between. “I called the place that sent it, and they said I had just signed a lease with them two weeks ago.”
He chuckles, amused. Not a good sign for me. “And you don’t think that maybe, just maybe, it’s possible that two people could share the same name?”
My hand shakes, I’m holding the phone so tight. “If it was another person with the same name, why would the key have been sent to my address?”
He pushes a raspy breath into the receiver. “Clerical error? I don’t know. Don’t ask me.”
“If you don’t want the case, just say so.” My tone is sharper than usual, and I hate the way it makes me sound. “No need to be rude about it.”
The man stops laughing. “This is a joke, right? Did C.J. put you up to this?”
I force a breath through half-pursed lips before summoning some calmness. “This is not a joke.”
“Then I think maybe you’ve called the wrong guy, lady,” he says, sounding almost in all seriousness. “I can’t help you.”
“Of course you can. I need to find out who this woman really is because she’s sure as hell not who she’s claiming to be.”
“No, no,” he says. “You don’t need a private investigator. You need a doctor. The head kind. Something’s not right about you.”
My cheeks flush; my insides burn.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt the physical sensations of embarrassment, and here I am, allowing a complete stranger to make me feel silly and all of two inches tall.
“Screw off.” I hang up on him and shove my phone away before getting up and pacing the room.
I have to untangle this sordid web.
And if no one’s going to believe me, if they’re all going to think I’m crazy, then I’m going to have to do it alone.
CHAPTER 5
I’m not sure what day it is or how long I’ve been sleeping, but when I open my eyes and sit up enough to reach the window curtain, I’m met with a storm-darkened sky, the soft patter of rain, and the gentle roll of thunder. I can’t be sure if it’s early morning or the onset of night.
The emotional strain of this “other me” nonsense worked me into another debilitative state, though I’m not sure how many days or hours I’ve lost this time.
I’ve only been sitting a few seconds when the searing throb on the side of my head roars back to life. My stomach churns, and I mentally calculate how long it’s going to take me to reach the bathroom.
Ever since the attack, I’ve suffered stress-induced migraines. Sometimes they last half a day and I can sleep them off; other times they last a solid twenty-four hours or longer.
I need to grab my phone and check the time. Every time I take my migraine prescription, I make a note in my Notes app so I don’t accidentally double up, but my vision is so sensitive that the mere thought of checking my phone screen in this dark room makes the pain in my head throb harder in anticipation.
With eyes half-shut, I trudge out of my room, dragging my hands along the floral-patterned walls and feeling my way toward the kitchen, where my pill bottle rests right where I left it, next to the sink.
I fill a glass of water, one eye shut and one half-open, and I choke back another pill before returning to my room and burying myself beneath a mountain of covers.
I just need to sleep this off, and I’ll be okay.
My head hurts too much to think, so I lie there in an almost meditative state, waiting for sleep to take hold of me, drifting in and out of consciousness.
It’s only when I roll onto my side—in view of my door—that everything begins to fade away . . .
Until a figure appears in my doorway.
A man’s figure.
I try to gasp for air, but I somehow end up choking on my spit before I can get a word out.
“It’s okay—it’s just me,” he whispers. “Just got home. House was dark. Wanted to check on you. Go back to sleep.”
I sink back into my pillow.
It’s only Niall.
CHAPTER 6
According to my phone, it’s early Saturday morning when I come to again, groggy this time but migraine-free. I’m guessing I doubled up on my meds, which knocked me out for longer than usual.
It’s surreal, losing significant chunks of my life, but in a way, it makes me appreciate the clearer moments and the fact that I’m still alive and kicking. And if anything, this last bout has only intensified my desire to get back on track, to take back what’s mine.
All I want is some normalcy.
And to feel like me again.
I hit the shower and wash over two days’ worth of stale sleep smell from my body. When I’m finished freshening up and dressed for the day, I head to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.
“Morning,” Niall greets me, a full carafe in his hand. Without saying a word, he grabs a mug and pours mine.
“Thanks.” I fish the creamer from the fridge and dig a packet of sugar from a canister by the stove. “You have the weekend off?”
I ask a question to which I already know the answer, but he doesn’t need to know that. I don’t know him well enough to know if he’d be bothered by how much I know about his comings and goings. I could chalk it up to the fact that we live together and we’ve established a bit of a rhythm in that respect, but deep down I know it goes beyond that, and he’s smart enough that he could very easily read between the lines.
The last thing I want is to scare him away, especially when his company, his presence, is so invaluable. He’s the only friend I have, and I intend to keep him in my life at any cost. If there’s anything I’ve learned these last six months, it’s that friendships—true friendships—are priceless.