chick.
“You performed the tests in person?” Hughes persisted.
Charlie nodded again, then said, “Yes.” Continuing to nod because she was finding it too difficult to talk was just weak of her. At some point, she knew, the pain of Michael’s loss would lessen, because even the worst heartbreak got better with time. Until then, she’d already determined her best course of action:
Fake it until you make it.
In other words, carry on as normally as possible until the raw wound that was her heart found a way to heal.
It would. She had to believe it would.
Hughes said, “Then when I tell you I’m here because I saw Michael Garland’s mug shots and got curious, you’ll understand what I’m talking about.”
He watched her, clearly trying to gauge her reaction.
Charlie’s throat felt tight as she asked, “You’ve—never met him? Never seen him in person?”
Hughes shook his head. “No. The mug shots were enough.”
She knew what he meant. The fact that this man was physically identical to Michael in all but the tiniest of details was impossible to miss. The resemblance was still knocking her sideways, messing with her emotions, blocking her thought processes. What it meant she had no clue yet, but if he was telling the truth, if he was who and what he said he was with no kind of chicanery involved, once he’d seen Michael’s picture there was no way he could have missed how much they looked alike. No one could.
If he hadn’t been aware of Michael’s existence until that point, the resemblance might well have been enough to bring him here. She knew that if she came across someone who looked exactly like her, she’d follow up.
“You look like him,” she said. It was the understatement of the year and she was proud of how steady her voice was and how coolly objective she sounded. But as she spoke her eyes moved over his face almost compulsively, and it was all she could do not to reach up and lay her hand against the smooth-shaven plane of his way-too-familiar-looking cheek.
This is not Michael.
The refrain shivered through her body with every heartbeat even as she yearned to believe that maybe, just maybe, she was wrong. But she was getting no sense of familiarity, no feeling of connection, and the awfulness of looking at the outer shell of Michael without it being him was beyond upsetting.
“From what I could see,
exactly
like him,” he said, still watching her. “Unless it was a trick of the lighting or camera angles or something when they took the mug shots.”
Folding her arms over her chest to try to maintain her calm, Charlie shook her head. “No. It wasn’t anything like that. It’s a—very strong resemblance. Except for your eyes. Your eyes are the wrong color. His are—were—blue.” She looked away from him with an effort, only to have her gaze fall fully on Michael’s grave. There were a few weeds growing in tufts that were taller than the sparse grass covering it—and it looked barren. And lonely. A hard knot formed in her chest, and for a moment the pain was indescribable. She jerked her eyes back to Hughes. “Other than that, you could be twins.”
It was only then, as she said it, that the possibility shot like a missile out of the chaos churning in her brain. She didn’t know why it hadn’t hit her sooner: it should have first thing, as soon as she’d looked at him, as soon as she’d decided that he wasn’t Michael.
If he wasn’t Michael, and he was alive and human, he almost had to be Michael’s relative. His brother. Maybe even his twin. Maybe even his
identical
twin.
Her eyes widened at the thought.
Could identical twins have different-colored eyes? She wasn’t certain, but until she could research it she wasn’t ruling it out.
Michael had been adopted at a young age. Michael wouldn’t necessarily have known he had a sibling, even if that sibling was an identical twin. In fact, he certainly hadn’t known it, or the fact would have surfaced during his
“You performed the tests in person?” Hughes persisted.
Charlie nodded again, then said, “Yes.” Continuing to nod because she was finding it too difficult to talk was just weak of her. At some point, she knew, the pain of Michael’s loss would lessen, because even the worst heartbreak got better with time. Until then, she’d already determined her best course of action:
Fake it until you make it.
In other words, carry on as normally as possible until the raw wound that was her heart found a way to heal.
It would. She had to believe it would.
Hughes said, “Then when I tell you I’m here because I saw Michael Garland’s mug shots and got curious, you’ll understand what I’m talking about.”
He watched her, clearly trying to gauge her reaction.
Charlie’s throat felt tight as she asked, “You’ve—never met him? Never seen him in person?”
Hughes shook his head. “No. The mug shots were enough.”
She knew what he meant. The fact that this man was physically identical to Michael in all but the tiniest of details was impossible to miss. The resemblance was still knocking her sideways, messing with her emotions, blocking her thought processes. What it meant she had no clue yet, but if he was telling the truth, if he was who and what he said he was with no kind of chicanery involved, once he’d seen Michael’s picture there was no way he could have missed how much they looked alike. No one could.
If he hadn’t been aware of Michael’s existence until that point, the resemblance might well have been enough to bring him here. She knew that if she came across someone who looked exactly like her, she’d follow up.
“You look like him,” she said. It was the understatement of the year and she was proud of how steady her voice was and how coolly objective she sounded. But as she spoke her eyes moved over his face almost compulsively, and it was all she could do not to reach up and lay her hand against the smooth-shaven plane of his way-too-familiar-looking cheek.
This is not Michael.
The refrain shivered through her body with every heartbeat even as she yearned to believe that maybe, just maybe, she was wrong. But she was getting no sense of familiarity, no feeling of connection, and the awfulness of looking at the outer shell of Michael without it being him was beyond upsetting.
“From what I could see,
exactly
like him,” he said, still watching her. “Unless it was a trick of the lighting or camera angles or something when they took the mug shots.”
Folding her arms over her chest to try to maintain her calm, Charlie shook her head. “No. It wasn’t anything like that. It’s a—very strong resemblance. Except for your eyes. Your eyes are the wrong color. His are—were—blue.” She looked away from him with an effort, only to have her gaze fall fully on Michael’s grave. There were a few weeds growing in tufts that were taller than the sparse grass covering it—and it looked barren. And lonely. A hard knot formed in her chest, and for a moment the pain was indescribable. She jerked her eyes back to Hughes. “Other than that, you could be twins.”
It was only then, as she said it, that the possibility shot like a missile out of the chaos churning in her brain. She didn’t know why it hadn’t hit her sooner: it should have first thing, as soon as she’d looked at him, as soon as she’d decided that he wasn’t Michael.
If he wasn’t Michael, and he was alive and human, he almost had to be Michael’s relative. His brother. Maybe even his twin. Maybe even his
identical
twin.
Her eyes widened at the thought.
Could identical twins have different-colored eyes? She wasn’t certain, but until she could research it she wasn’t ruling it out.
Michael had been adopted at a young age. Michael wouldn’t necessarily have known he had a sibling, even if that sibling was an identical twin. In fact, he certainly hadn’t known it, or the fact would have surfaced during his
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