Page 32 of Don't Trust Her

“Right. But before I could bring it up, you started talking to Dad more than I’ve seen in years. It really warmed my heart. I swear he noticed the difference—he’s been much easier to deal with since you left earlier. So, thanks for that.”

Everything around me becomes fuzzy, and I have to sit down. “You’re sure about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“What time was that?”

“About one, I think. I didn’t check the clock.”

That was about when I arrived at the preschool.

Someone who looks just like me is pretending to be me. And she’s convincing enough to make my own mother believe she’s me.

I need to find out who this woman is and put a stop to whatever she’s up to.

Now.

ChapterEighteen

Aquick online search tells me all I need to know about doppelgängers. They’re real, and more than likely everyone has one somewhere because the probability is too great given the world’s population. What’s even more creepy is that a person who looks just like you is more likely to have closer DNA, too.

The woman impersonating me could be a distant relative. That thought sends a cold chill down my spine.

What does she want? And what lengths will she go to in order to get it? Whatever it is, I’m almost willing to hand it over just to get my life back to the way it was before she stepped in. Now that she’s checked out my kids from preschool and taken them to my parents’ house, there’s no doubt she has a motive.

But what? That’s what is driving me crazy.

Knock, knock!

I pull myself from my thoughts and answer the bedroom door.

Sophie stands there, her eyes wide.

My stomach sinks. “Are you okay?”

She nods. “Mommy, can Owen and I have ice cream? I know it’s a weeknight, but Daddy told us you might say yes.”

I throw my arms around her. “You can have all the ice cream you want tonight!”

“Really?”

“Of course.” I pull back and study her.

Her eyes are still wide and she seems tense. Usually she’s so relaxed and happy.

A horrible thought strikes me.

“Did something happen this afternoon?” I demand. “After you left preschool?”

“What do you mean?”

“Were you hurt in any way?” I hold out her arm, looking for bruises or scrapes.

Nothing.

She shakes her head slowly. “I didn’t get any owies.”

“What about Owen?”

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