Mirror Image

mistaken for a woman named Carole Rutledge? Even Mr. Rutledge seemed convinced that he was speaking to his wife.
    Somehow, she must communicate this mistake to them. But she didn’t know how, and that frightened her.
    Her name was Avery Daniels. It was clearly printed on her driver’s license, her press pass, and all the other forms of identification in her wallet. They had probably been destroyed in the crash, she thought.
    Memories of the crash tended to panic her still, so she determinedly put them aside to be dealt with later, when she was stronger and had this temporary mix-up straightened out.
    Where was Irish? Why hadn’t he come to her rescue?
    The obvious answer startled her unexpectedly. Her whole body reacted as though it had been electrically charged. It was unthinkable, untenable, yet it was glaringly apparent. If she had been mistaken for Mrs. Rutledge, and Mrs. Rutledge was believed alive, then Avery Daniels was believed dead.
    She imagined the anguish Irish must be going through. Her “death” would hit him hard. For the present, however, she was helpless to alleviate his suffering. No! As long as she was alive, she wasn’t helpless. She must think. She must concentrate.
    “Good morning.”
    She recognized his voice immediately. The swelling in her eye must have gone down some because she could see him more clearly. His previously blurred features were now distinct.
    His heavy, well-shaped brows almost met above the bridge of a long, straight nose. He had a strong, stubborn jawline and chin, yet it fell short of being pugnacious, despite the vertical cleft at the edge of it. His lips were firm, wide, and thin, the lower one slightly fuller than the upper.
    He was smiling, but not with his eyes, she noted. He didn’t really feel the smile. It didn’t come from his soul. Avery wondered why not.
    “They said you had a restful night. Still no sign of pulmonary infection. That’s terrific news.”
    She knew this face, this voice. Not from yesterday. It was before that, but she couldn’t recall when she had met this man.
    “Mom left Mandy’s room long enough to come say hello to you.” He turned his head and signaled someone to move closer. “You have to stand here, Mom, or she can’t see you.”
    An exceptionally pretty, middle-aged face materialized in Avery’s patch of vision. The woman’s soft, dark hair had a very flattering silver streak that waved up and away from her smooth, unlined forehead.
    “Hello, Carole. We’re all very relieved that you’re doing so well. Tate said the doctors are pleased with your progress.”
    Tate Rutledge! Of course.
    “Tell her about Mandy, Mom.”
    Dutifully, the stranger reported on another stranger. “Mandy ate most of her breakfast this morning. They sedated her last night so she would sleep better. The cast on her arm bothers her, but that’s to be expected, I suppose. She’s the sweetheart of the pediatric wing, and has the entire staff wrapped around her little finger.” Tears formed in her eyes and she blotted at them with a tissue. “When I think of what…”
    Tate Rutledge placed his arm across his mother’s shoulders. “But it didn’t happen. Thank God it didn’t.”
    Avery realized then that it must have been Mandy Rutledge she had carried from the plane. She remembered hearing the child’s screams and frantically trying to unfasten her jammed seat belt. When it came free, she had gathered the terrified child against her and, with the assistance of another passenger, had plunged through the dense, acrid smoke toward an emergency exit.
    Because she had had the child, they had assumed she was Mrs. Carole Rutledge. But that wasn’t all—they had been in each other’s seats.
    Her mind clumsily pieced together a puzzle of which only she was aware. She recalled that her boarding pass had designated the window seat, but when she had arrived, a woman was already sitting there. She hadn’t pointed out the error, but had taken the seat on the aisle instead. The child had been sitting in the seat between them.
    The woman had worn her dark hair shoulder length, much like Avery wore hers. She also had dark eyes. They bore a resemblance to each other. In fact, the flight attendant, who had made a fuss over the little girl, had asked who was the mother and who was the aunt, implying that Avery and Carole Rutledge were sisters.
    Her face had been smashed beyond recognition. Mrs. Rutledge had probably been burned beyond recognition. They