Have We Crossed Paths Before?
She bristled. “I came willingly. No family left. You?”
“Two sons. Four grandchildren. The younger one divorced, remarried. His new wife and I didn’t… see eye to eye. I left before things turned ugly.”
He introduced himself as Reginald Whitmore. The name meant nothing. Yet they started sharing meals, taking walks when the weather allowed.
“Have we met before?” she ventured. “Your face seems familiar.”
“Doubt it. Scientists say everyone’s got a double. Only so many face types in the world…” He rambled on, but she grew more certain.
“Do you have any photos of yourself when you were younger? I’m sure I know you.”
“Don’t carry my family album around,” he snapped.
Normally, she’d drop it. But this gnawed at her.
Snow had piled up that week. At breakfast, residents trickled outside. Winifred scanned the paths for Reginald. Not finding him, she headed to his room.
The door was ajar. Raised voices. His son, visiting. She turned to leave—then heard Reginald shout:
