Page 8 of Ground Truth

Hanna had watched one amusing moment several times.

A young boy waving a shiny silver balloon sat atop his father’s shoulders. When one group of mounted soldiers approached riding jet-black horses, the boy became so animated that he lost his grip on the balloon’s ribbon.

The balloon rose in the breeze, dancing low over the horse’s nose. The horse snorted and sent the balloon careening upward. The balloon bounced off the ears of three more annoyed horses before it passed close enough to a soldier’s grasp.

The entire display delighted the child. His infectious squeals filled the air. When the soldier managed to grab the ribbon and bring the dancing balloon to heel, onlookers applauded with jovial cheers.

The soldier glanced at the boy and offered a quick smile before he released the balloon into the breeze, where it bobbed a while longer before the cameras returned their focus to the procession.

The whole scene lasted less than a full minute. But it was a lighthearted moment in an otherwise staid performance. For thirty-two million pounds, Hanna would have demanded jugglers and dancers and amusements galore. It was a wedding celebration, after all. Not a funeral.

She pressed the back button on the remote and watched the brief episode again. The boy’s joy was contagious. He looked about three years old. He laughed and clapped, and his eyes crinkled with pleasure.

The smilingly proud father held on to his chubby legs while the mother shook her head and grinned. Royal watchers surrounded the young family, joining in the festive mood.

Hanna had viewed the scene on various outlets before. But in this version of the video, the camera panned a wider section of the crowd. Spectators stood several rows deep. The briefest of video sweeps passed to the right of the boy when he clapped his plump hands together with unabashed delight.

This time Hanna saw something she hadn’t noticed before.

Her breath caught in her chest causing a sharp, deep pain. She willed herself to breathe normally but it didn’t happen. She felt herself losing consciousness as blackness closed around the edges of her vision.

“Breathe, Hanna. Breathe,” she whispered with as much energy as she could muster.

Through force of will alone, she managed a shallow exhale. Brief inhale. Shallow exhale again. Each effort prolonged her breaths only slightly as she remained still, staring at the screen.

The mother. Could that possibly be her?

The images were not crisp. The distance was more than ideal. The video moved past the woman much too fast.

Even so.

Hanna consciously inhaled, exhaled, and pressed the back button on the remote, playing the sequence again and again. After a dozen repeats, she paused the video to display the mother’s face in the center of her screen.

Hanna stared at the blurry image for a good long time, mouth slack, eyes unfocused.

Long enough to convince herself that the woman could be Greta Campbell, Hanna’s sister.

While the image held on the television screen, Hanna searched for her cell phone. She snapped photos of the woman’s face. Then she hit the play button again and captured the video using the phone’s camera.

With every passing minute, every repeat of the footage, Hanna became more convinced. She’d heard it said that everyone has a doppelgänger. Someone else on the planet that looks exactly like you.

Maybe the woman was her sister’s doppelgänger.

Or maybe the camera lied.

It often did.

Angles, filters, lighting, editing. All of that and more could be manipulated to distort and deceive.

Something like that had to be the answer to this impossible vision.

How could that woman possibly be her sister? Greta was dead, surely. She must have been dead for years. It simply wasn’t possible that this woman was Hanna’s sister.

Not even a slim chance in Hell.

Right?

Absolutely.

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