They look very similar and, if you didn’t know them, it would be easy to muddle them up. Their hair is similar and nothing that a bottle of hair colour or a trip to the hairdressers couldn’t sort out. They both have high cheekbones and, from what I can tell, from the photographs Roma has given me, they are of similar build and height. The only giveaway is their eyes.
Alice Kennedy has the most amazing blue eyes. It’s something that I remember vividly about her. Everyone who saw her used to comment on how big and blue they were. Blue eyes run in both my mother’s family and Patrick Kennedy’s family. And there they are, staring right back at me.
I look at the contact lens box on the bed and the blue-eye graphic I realise is not a generic graphic – it’s colour-specific. I take a closer look. On the other side, three small boxes are printed, each has one word underneath: blue, brown, green. The square above the word ‘blue’ is ticked. These aren’t normal contact lenses; these are for changing the appearance of eye colour.
A wave of nausea swells in my stomach and for a moment I consider making a dash for the bathroom. I clench my stomach with my hand and, sitting up straight to allow as much oxygen into my lungs as possible, I take deep breaths – in through my nose and release slowly out through my mouth. The sensation passes but my mind is in turmoil.
I push my hands through my hair. I don’t know what to do. I stand. I pull at my hair. I stride across the room to the window. It takes just three paces. I stride back to the bed. I want to sit. I want to stand. I pick up the photographs again. I run the scenario through my mind, slowly, very slowly, just to check I haven’t made a mistake anywhere. I’m usually very thorough with things like this. I don’t usually make mistakes. How I wish that this time I had. I want to be wrong.
I am not.
I shudder and goose bumps prick their way down my spine, then both my arms prickle with fear and I’m engulfed in a fleeting moment of cold air. I shiver and scrunch my shoulders up. My brain formally identifying the terrifying thought. The young woman at home with my family is not who she says she is. She is not Alice. She is Martha and she has taken my sister’s identity.
I sink onto the bed and bury my head in the photographs, my arms sweeping them into me. I have no concept of time or space. I can only think of my darling sister and what might have happened to her.
I don’t know how long I’ve been lying on the bed amongst the photographs but at some point the pain has switched to anger. I need to know what exactly has happened to Alice. There is only one person who can answer this – the imposter in my home.
I grab my mobile and call Luke. My fingers fumble with the phone as the adrenalin starts to pump through me. If Martha is capable of taking on Alice’s identity, capable of being so cold-hearted and callous to trick, not just me and Luke, but my Mum as well, then she is capable of anything and right now she’s with my family. I can’t bear to think what this will do to Mum.
While I wait for the call to connect and for Luke to answer his bloody phone, I know I have to detach myself from what I think the worse-case scenario might be. I need to keep a professional head if I’m to get through this and find out the truth. Luke’s phone goes to voicemail. I hang up without leaving a message.
It’s early evening here in Florida, which, given the five-hour time difference, means it’s mid-afternoon in the UK. Luke will probably be picking Hannah up from school. I wait for an hour and then try again, but he still doesn’t answer. In desperation, I call the house phone.
Mum answers. ‘Hi, Mum,’ I say. ‘It’s me, Clare.’
‘Hello.’ I can tell from the frosty reception that Mum is not impressed with my transatlantic trip. ‘I hope you’re ringing to say you’re on your way home.’
‘Mum, please.’ She still has the ability to make me feel like a naughty teenager who is late home from a party. ‘I’ll be home Wednesday morning. First thing.’
‘Whatever possessed you to go to America?’
‘I needed to come. There are so many things that don’t add up.’
‘You’re stirring trouble, that’s what you’re doing. Have you any idea how upset I’ve been? How upset your sister has been? There’s nothing in America that you need to worry about.’
‘I met Roma Kendrick,’ I say slowly.
‘What did you do that for?’
‘I wanted to ask her about things. About Dad.’
‘Honestly, Clare, I really don’t know what you’re hoping to find out or prove from this … this … carry-on. It’s ridiculous.’
‘Don’t you want to know what she said?’ I’m tired and I shouldn’t be having this conversation with Mum right now, but I can’t help myself. I’m fed up with her avoiding talking about the past.
‘No. Actually, I don’t.’
‘She said Patrick always let her believe he wasn’t my father.’ The words are out and I can’t take them back. I hear Mum gasp.
‘She would say that, wouldn’t she? What does she know?’ Mum’s in full recovery mode. ‘And even if your father did say that, he would only have been saying it for his own benefit.’
‘Why didn’t he take me, then? Why take only Alice?’