The photograph on Dr. Reeves’s computer screen showed a woman who looked exactly like me.
She had the same eyes, the same cheekbones, the same narrow chin, and even the small crescent-shaped scar above her left eyebrow. It was as if someone had taken a photograph of me and changed nothing except the name beneath it.
But according to the information on the screen, the woman had died eleven years earlier.
“Doctor,” I whispered, struggling to understand what I was seeing, “who is she?”
Dr. Reeves enlarged the photograph before turning the monitor toward me.
“Her name was Eleanor Whitmore. She disappeared from a private medical facility in Switzerland and was officially declared dead several months later.”
I gripped the arms of my chair.
“Why are you showing me her photograph?”
He removed his glasses and studied me carefully. CONTINUE READING PART 2
