Mirror Image

her. She wouldn’t be exploiting Tate, either. Even above her desire to restore her professional credibility, she wanted to preserve his life, which had become precious to her.
    The risks involved were astronomical, but she couldn’t name a single ace reporter who hadn’t stuck his neck out to get where he was. Her father had taken daily risks in the pursuit of his profession. His courage had paid off with a Pulitzer prize. If he was willing to risk everything for his stories, could less be expected of her?
    However, she realized that this had to be a rational business decision. She must approach it pragmatically, not emotionally. She would be assuming the role of Tate’s wife and all that the relationship implied and entailed. She would be living with his family, constantly observed by people who knew Carole intimately.
    The enormity of the challenge was intimidating, but it was also irresistible. The consequences could be severe, but the rewards would be worth any price.
    She would make a million mistakes, like writing with the wrong hand. But she’d always had a knack for thinking on her feet. She would talk her way out of mistakes.
    Could it work? Could she do it?
Dare
she try?
    She threw off the covers, propped herself on her crutches, and hobbled into the bathroom. Beneath the glaring, merciless fluorescent lighting, she stared at the face in the mirror and compared it to the photograph of Carole that had been taped to the wall for encouragement.
    The skin looked new, as pink and smooth as a baby’s butt, just as Dr. Sawyer had promised. She peeled her lips back and studied the dental prostheses that were duplicates of Carole Rutledge’s front teeth. She ran her hand over the close cap of dark hair. No scars were discernible, unless one looked very closely. In time, all traces would fade into invisibility.
    She didn’t allow herself the luxury of sadness, though regret and homesickness for her own familiar image tugged at her heart. This was her destiny now. She had a new face. It could be her ticket to a new life.
    Tomorrow, she would assume the identity of Carole Rutledge.
    Avery Daniels had nothing else to lose.

Eleven
    The nurse gave her a satisfied once-over. “You’ve got wonderful hair, Mrs. Rutledge.”
    “Thanks,” Avery said ruefully. “What there is of it.”
    During the seven days that Tate had been away, she had fully regained her voice. He was due to arrive at any moment, and she was nervous.
    “No,” the nurse was saying, “that’s my point. Not everybody can wear such a short style. On you, it’s a knockout.”
    Avery glanced into the hand mirror, plucked at the spiky bangs on her forehead, and said dubiously, “I hope so.”
    She was seated in a chair with her right leg elevated on a footstool. A cane was propped against the chair. Her hands were folded together in her lap.
    The nurses were as aflutter as she over Tate’s imminent arrival after being out of town for more than a week. They had primped her like a bride waiting for her groom.
    “He’s here,” one of them announced in a stage whisper, poking her head around the door. The nurse with Avery squeezed her shoulder. “You look terrific. He’s going to be bowled over.”
    He wasn’t exactly bowled over, but he was momentarily stunned. She watched his eyes widen marginally when he spotted her sitting in the chair, wearing street clothes—Carole’s street clothes—which Zee had brought her several days earlier.
    “Hello, Tate.”
    At the sound of her voice, he registered even more surprise.
    Her heart lurched.
He knew!
    Had she made another blunder? Did Carole have a pet name she always addressed him by? She held her breath, waiting for him to point an accusing finger at her and shout, “You lying impostor!”
    Instead, he cleared his throat uneasily and returned her greeting. “Hello, Carole.”
    Through her finely fashioned nose, she exhaled thin little wisps of air, not wanting to give away her relief by expelling the deep breath she’d been holding for so long it had made her chest ache.
    He came farther into the room, and absently laid a bunch of flowers and a package on the nightstand. “You look great.”
    “Thank you.”
    “You can talk,” he said with an awkward laugh.
    “Yes. Finally.”
    “Your voice sounds different.”
    “We were warned of that, remember?” she said quickly.
    “Yeah, but I didn’t expect the…” He made a motion with his fingers across his throat. “The