Which Twin?

He moved over to a desk, fiddled with the computer sitting there, and a moment later he was staring at a screen displaying two gray ovals formed of tight concentric lines.

A look of total concentration creased Dennis’s features as he repeatedly glanced from one print to the other. When Rose realized she was holding her breath, she slowly and determinedly released it. This was ridiculous, she told herself. Any second now, this man was going to announce that the prints did not match. She was, after all, not Anna Benedict.

“Wow. These are close,” Dennis said on the heels of her mental declaration. Lifting his head, he looked at Logan and went on, “But, as they say, close only counts in horseshoes.”

“Are you trying to say the prints don’t match?” Logan asked.

“That’s right.” Dennis stood and stretched before going on. “But, damn, they are close.”

“I got that. Are you sure they’re from two different people?”

Dennis glanced at his computer screen with a frown, then looked at Logan again. “Ye-es,” he said slowly.

“Is there some question?”

“No. Not about—”

“Because this is vitally important,” Logan said. “I need you to be 100 percent sure on this.”

“I am 100 percent certain,” Dennis replied. “However, I have a theory I want to check out. There are some hairs on this brush. Can you get me some from the person who donated the other set of prints so I can run a DNA test?”

Logan turned to An—Rose, he reminded himself. He raised one eyebrow inquiringly and after a moment’s hesitation she nodded. Opening her purse, she drew out a small brush and handed it to Dennis.

As the man removed the few strands of hair tangled in the bristles, Logan asked, “Just what are these suspicions of yours?”

“Suspicions?” Dennis’s full lips curved into a particularly cherubic smile as he returned the brush to Rose. “Let’s see…I agreed to look at these fingerprints, despite the fact that you said that you couldn’t tell me what all this was about. So, until I’ve run this test, I think it only fair that I keep my own counsel. Wouldn’t you say?”

Logan met his friend’s wide-eyed, innocent gaze with narrowed eyes. Games. He’d forgotten how much Dennis Langtrey loved to play guessing games. Most likely this characteristic was what enabled the brilliant mind behind that round, childlike face to focus on tiny bits of minutia day after day, trusting that eventually they would lead to the unraveling of a puzzle.

And this was definitely a puzzle worthy of Dennis’s mind. Two women who were almost identical—no, who were identical—yet came from completely different backgrounds. And to make things even more interesting, the day after one of them runs off, her look-alike shows up.

Logan glanced at Rose. And what about this claim that she’d appeared on the Benedict veranda in response to some dream? The story sounded preposterous—like one of Anna’s more outrageous fantasies. But…Dennis had just unequivocally stated that her fingerprints didn’t match the ones he’d lifted from Anna’s glass. They were close, Dennis said. An impossible suspicion grew in his mind. Maybe this test of Dennis’s would confirm it. In the meantime, he needed to keep the Benedict family as normal as possible.

Aware that nothing would get Dennis to tip his hand before he was ready, he asked, “How long before you have the results?”

Dennis shrugged. “Tomorrow, probably.”

“I thought DNA testing took weeks.”

“It can, especially in a murder investigation when you must compare several samples and run multiple tests for accuracy. But if my guess is right in this case, I should only have to run the most basic screen. Also, I don’t have any pressing cases going right now to hold me up.”

It was clear that the man had no intention of giving out any more information. “All right, Dennis,” he said with a sigh. “Keep your little secret for the time being. But call me as soon as you finish running your test.”

“Of course,” the man responded with a nod. “And then you’ll explain what is going on?”

“As soon as I know the whole story.”

And know it’s politically safe to reveal, Logan thought as he ushered Rose out the door. As they walked to the car, he found himself recalling the speculative glint in his friend’s eyes. Upon reaching the car, Logan held the passenger door open for Rose, then walked around to the driver’s side, deep in thought. It was his job to see that the family name remained above reproach, he reminded himself. It was even more important now, with Robert running against an opponent known for gleefully slinging any mud he happened upon—or dug up.

Robert’s track record in state government was above reproach, but news that his daughter might be unstable could kick up a media frenzy that would drain attention from the proposals the man wanted to communicate to the electorate. Logan drew a deep breath. So he had landed in the last place he wanted to be—a political campaign.

Schmoozing and charming was Chas’s department. However, damage control was Logan’s. It was up to him to straighten out this situation, and quietly.

A not-too-polite honk broke Logan out of his thoughts. Realizing that he’d put on his seat belt and placed the key in the ignition only to sit and stare out the window, he switched the engine on. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he noted with a grim smile that the car behind him slid into his spot even as he moved forward, just as he’d done over an hour earlier.

An hour in which he hadn’t learned much more than the fact that the woman next to him was definitely not Anna.

“Now what?” she said, echoing his own thoughts.

Logan glanced at her as he stopped for the next light. “Good question. How about some food? It’s after noon, and the last meal I recall was something in a plastic dish served on the airplane an hour before I landed. I don’t think all too well on an empty stomach.”

Rose frowned. “What’s to think about? Your friend confirmed that I’m not this Anna person. End of story. The hotel I’m staying at is around here somewhere, I think. Just drop me off, then you can—”

“Which hotel?” Logan asked as the light turned green.

“The Herbert, on Powell and O’Farrell.”

Logan nodded. He needed a plan, and to give himself time to come up with one, he made small talk.

“I know where that is. Small place. Rather old.”

“Yes. And all I can afford.”

Rose turned to stare out the window, her jaw stiff with chagrin at the ever-so-slightly defensive note she’d heard beneath her words.

It wasn’t that she was ashamed of the reduced state of her finances. She didn’t regret for one moment the money spent on battling her mother’s illness, nor her choice to cut back her performing and teaching schedule to spend as much time as possible with Kathleen rather than taking on new students.

She was a bit embarrassed by the way she’d set off on this trip without considering the cost—driven by a need to escape Queen Anne Hill, to get away from the hustle and bustle of the well-to-do customers who patronized her mother’s gift shop, to escape the sudden emptiness that filled the rooms above that had once rang with loving laughter.

“I can help you with that.”

Logan’s quiet words captured Rose’s attention. She turned to him with a lift of her eyebrows. Before she could ask what he meant, he gave her a smile. It was a wide, warm smile. But this time she noticed right away that it didn’t reach his eyes. Immediately she stiffened suspiciously.

“You can help me with what?”

“Money?”

“And why would you do that?”

“As payment.”

“Payment? For what?”

The smile widened as the car slid to a stop. “For services rendered. And hopefully for services to be rendered.”

Rose frowned. “What are you talking—”

“Park your car, Mr. Maguire?”