My phone chirps by my thigh with the specific tone I have set for Lincoln. I slide my finger across the screen to look at the text message. He’s out right now picking up my prescription and should be back any moment.
Lincoln: Stopping by the store down from the house for some of your favorite ice cream. Need anything else?
I smile at his thoughtfulness.
My fingers fumble around, but I manage to send him a reply.
Me: Nope. Only for you to be home so I can kiss your lips.
The little dots beside his picture jump.
Lincoln: What my girl wants, she gets. ;) Be home in a few. Love you.
Me: Love you too. <3
Instead of locking my screen, I bring the device to my lap and set it on my thighs. I pull up a web browser and type in Charles and Clara McCord, the city and state Clara last mentioned they lived in, and a random date during the time period they lived. I’m not sure why I haven’t looked them up before, but a sudden bout of curiosity has me going through the search results. The dates of the first several listings are wrong. One listing catches my eye because the headline of the news article matches one of Clara’s entries.
Heroic bystander saves the lives of an elderly couple and their two grandchildren from a fire.
I click on the link, and a news article pops up to explain that Charles McCord, while taking his pet Labrador for a walk around his neighborhood two nights ago, noticed the smell of smoke and the flickering lights from flames coming from within a house several homes down from his. He quickly attached the leash to a nearby street sign and rushed toward the house. The fire was blazing in the living room and was rapidly moving toward the stairs that led to the second floor, where the elderly couple and children were unsuspectingly sleeping soundly. Uncaring of the danger he was putting himself in, he ran up the stairs to search each room. It took him less than five minutes to wake everyone and usher them down the stairs, where the fire was starting to creep up to the second floor. He suffered first degree burns on one of his arms while he cradled one child against his chest, shoving her tiny face against his body to help prevent smoke inhalation.
The news made the headlines because the children were the kids of one of the prominent lawyers in town.
Below the article is a black and white picture of the half-burnt house. It’s not that particular picture that holds my attention, though. It’s the one below it of Charles talking to one of the paramedics. With a frown, I make the picture bigger and bring the phone closer to my face. I suck in a sharp breath, and my mouth goes dry.
Even from a side view, I recognize the uncanny resemblance of Lincoln. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the man in the photo was Lincoln, or maybe his great-grandfather. It’s ludicrous to even contemplate. What are the chances of Lincoln being related to Charles? Besides, I’ve seen pictures of Lincoln’s grandparents when they were younger. He looks more like this man than he did his grandparents.
Spooked, I take a screenshot of the photo before backing out of the webpage. I scroll through a couple more pages until I come across Charles and Clara McCord’s name listed in the headline.
The story is a feature of Charles and the house he just finished building. He worked for another company for years when he decided to start his own business. Charles and Clara’s house was the first house he finished under his own company. The article was for business purposes, advertising CC Construction.
My lips pinch together and my eyes narrow. Lincoln’s nickname for Clara’s journals is CC. Another strange coincidence.
Scrolling down and browsing the article, which highlights the kind of work Charles does, I come to a grainy picture. Clicking to make it larger, I almost fall over in bed when I get a good look at the couple standing arm and arm with big smiles on their faces. It’s one thing for Lincoln to look so much like Charles—it can be played off as him being a doppelganger or something. But for me to look like Clara?
Even though the picture is in black and white, I know Clara has red hair from the freckles on her face. Despite the freckles, I know if the image were in color, her complexion would be pale compared to Charles’ tan. She has a dimple on one cheek, just like I do. And the arch of her brows are the same. We also have the same small pert nose.
My heart beats in my chest, and I hear the echo in my ears.
The weird similarities in our stories. The eerie resemblances. Us using the same term forevermore. Lincoln’s nickname for Charles and Clara being the same name as Charles’ company.
It’s all too much. There’s no way there could be that much of a coincidence.
What in the world is going on?
Hearing the front door close, I yell from the bed, “Lincoln!”
Not a second passes before he’s rushing into the room, his face lined with worry. “What’s wrong?” he demands, practically sprinting to my side of the bed.
“Loook at thisss.”
Sliding the phone to the edge of the bed, he snatches it up to look at the screen. It takes a moment, and for the first few seconds, he looks confused. His brows jump up, and his eyes move to me.
“Who are these people?”
“Charrrles and Claraaaa,” I tell him.
His gaze moves back to the phone as he takes a seat on the side of the bed by my hip. “You’re seeing what I’m seeing, right?”
I nod and swallow. “Theeey look aaa lot like usss.”
He chuckles, the sound coming across as disbelief. “Too much like us. If I didn’t know any better, I would say they are us.” He brings the phone closer to his face and turns it sideways. “This is some weird shit.”
As he continues to scrutinize the image, another thought pops in my head.
“Waittt.” Lincoln’s eyes lift to mine. “When weee lookeddd up Betsssy and William, Betsssy had reddd hair. I alsooo rememberrr thinnnking that Willlliamm reminded meee of you. What ifff…?” I trail off, my eyes widening. “Loook up Annaa and Jack Frazierrr. Specificalllly a piccturce of them. Connnnecticut, in the laaate eighteeen hundreds.”
His big fingers fly across the phone. I bite my lip as I wait, anxious for the results and my mind wandering to something so outrageous I’m seriously considering admitting myself to the looney bin.
It seems like it takes forever for Lincoln to find what we’re looking for. I know the moment he pulls up a picture. His face pales and his expression turns to wonder. Gray eyes meet mine as he holds the phone up for me to see the screen.
Right there, in black and white, a caption with the names Jack and Anna Frazier, is a man holding a child in one arm with his other around a woman’s waist. The woman is holding a second child on her hip. The two toddlers, a boy and a girl, are the same age. Anna, with freckles on her face, has long red hair. While she doesn’t have the same features as Clara had, her and I do share other similar features. And the man, Jack, has dark hair and the same jawline, forehead, and chin as Lincoln.
My eyes slam up to Lincoln’s to find him watching me closely.
“What doesss this mmmean?” I ask, my gaze darting back and forth between him and the phone screen. “Howw is thisss even pooossible? I meannn, I can unnderstanddd us favoringg one of theee coupless, but allll three?” I shake my head. “Thattt’s tooo much tooo believe.”
He drops the hand holding the phone on his lap. “And what about the journals themselves? How did they get in the attic?”