The Glass Secret (Chain of Secrets) (10 page)

“Well, anyway...I thought you said you contacted my parents.”

“No. I’m sorry. We were not sure how to contact your family. When you first arrived, initially you managed to tell us that you were from Paris—you also mumbled this in your sleep. The authorities have been notified that we had an unidentified young lady here, or as you would say a Jane Doe.” He smiled proudly after using his new American term. “And, well—now, that we know you are from New York City we might have an issue—getting messages to the states is virtually impossible since the last siege on Paris—”

“Yes, but—What? Did you say we’re under attack?”
Terrorist? Oh, my God!
I exclaimed inwardly.

“No, no. Not currently, but it may take a while before we can get word to your family. We can try to send a telegram but—”

My mind reeled as I absorbed this information. The thought of my parents not being able to contact me was extremely upsetting.

They must be out of their minds with worry.

“This is overwhelming...I didn’t know we had been attacked...” I said, swallowing my panic. It must have been a terrible attack.

“Really? You didn’t know this?” he asked in a surprising manner. He surveyed me with straining eyes, then retrieved eyeglasses from his pocket and placed them low on the bridge of his nose. “You must have lost more than your short-term memory.” He shook his head perplexingly; narrowing his eyes just a fraction.

“Yes...I guess I have,” I mumbled under my breath, considering what he’d said.

“Don’t worry, it’s going to be okay...now that you are fairly coherent, you can write them a letter.”

“What? I’ll just call them—”

I flashed on the doctor, and he was looking at me as if I was crazy. I didn’t care what he thought at that point.

I continued to ramble on, without taking a breath, and my pitch increasingly rose. “God, they’re going to freak out—I can hear the
I-told-you-so’s
already. My father was so...against me moving overseas—he’s going to have a conniption fit and will want answers. I have no idea what I’m going to tell them?” I rested my forehead in my palm. Thinking
.
“Does
anyone
know what happened to me?” I exhaled.

“Miss Eden, we don’t know—we found you unconscious on the front step of the hospital. All you had was the clothing on your back and that note in the front pocket of your dungarees,”—
dungarees?—
“Your condition was touch and go for a long time. I am sure when you speak to your family, more than anything, they will be relieved to hear that you are out of the woods. Just, tell them the truth,” he said firmly, slightly raising both eyebrows.

I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. Then it hit me. Had I been caught in the middle of the terrorist bombing? My pulse accelerated, and my entire body grew clammy.

“Is there a laptop around here I can borrow?” I asked, figuring I would hop on Skype to call my mother. She had to be climbing the walls. I usually spoke to my parents every other day.

“Huh? A lap...top—” His eyes scanned the room, drawing back to me and asked, “You’re not comfortable with the one you have on?”

“What?”

“Your top...is it not suitable?”

I glanced down, pulling at the thin fabric of the hospital gown. “No, it’s fine.” I shrugged, feeling dumbfounded.

Okay, maybe I should have first asked for a PC and then worked my way up to a laptop? This doctor must have spent too much time on missions in a third world country and didn’t know what a laptop was.

Cluck!

A huge smile rose to my face. My eyes darted to the door.

“Are you expecting someone?” Doctor Tagorski inquisitively asked.

“No,” I said beaming at the door anticipating Nuilley and a cameraman to plow into the room any second, laughing her ass off. It would be just like her to have Punk’d me. She didn’t think twice about crashing Demi & Ashton’s party a few years ago at the Sundance Film Festival in Park City. We didn’t end up hanging out with them, but we did make friends with a few young actresses on the verge of stardom. Nuilley was always hobnobbing with the in crowd. If she wanted to pull off a stunt like this, she certainly had the connections.

“Are you sure you are Brielle Eden? I mean, perhaps you believe you are,
only
, because we have been referring to you by her name.”

“Uh? Yes...of course, I’m
certain
that’s my name,” I clarified emphatically, feeling irritation bubbling to the surface. “Listen, I need to get out of here as soon as possible.” I flashed at the handwritten note. “As for this, it’s not my handwriting.” I focused on the note. “I don’t know who wrote this, but I didn’t. Besides, most of the time when I write letters it’s on my iPad, and I usually just email them—I’ve never owned such beautiful stationary like this.” I glanced at the note. “You do believe me now—don’t you?” I asked firmly.

“I’m having a hard time with your jargon,” he said, looking over the top of his dark rimmed glasses.

Ditto!

I threw my arms into the air out of frustration. Why did I feel the need to defend myself so fiercely? Was I in some kind of trouble? Did he think I was involved in the terrorist bombings? All he had to do was look at me...long blonde hair, green eyes, and my complexion was as white as flour. Of course, I supposed there was no protocol to what a terrorist may look like. Although the likes of me didn’t play in my favor, I was a hot mess. There was no doubt a woman covered in bruises and who had lost her memory could have appeared rather suspicious.

My throat tightened, and my jaw quivered the way it does when you know you are about to cr
y
.

-9-

Release me

“Listen, my name is Brielle Eden. I was born in Manhattan, my parents are Brandy and Mitchell, and I have a younger brother named Brett. What else—you already know my blood type,” I retorted, punctuating almost every word.

“Yes...that’s another thing,”—
of course it is,
I thought. He continued saying, “You have one of the most rarest blood types, AB negative. The percentage of this blood type is 0.7 out of every million.”

“Yes, I know and? It’s not like I’m in need of blood.”

“It’s just something worth mentioning. Miss Eden, there’s more,”—
spill your guts, Doc,
I retorted inwardly—“I did some checking when you fell asleep, and the hospital records confirm that there was a Brielle Eden born twenty-three years ago, which is probably about the same age as you.” He traced through my chart, obviously to double-check my age.

I pursed my lips, shaking my head, “Okay and—”

“Her blood type was AB negative—
was
,” he repeated emphatically.

“Was?” I asked. A lump stuck in my throat. “You mean she’s—”

He raised both brows in tandem. “I’m afraid so...her death certificate claims she passed away six months ago. It was really very tragic.”

I shook my head, “That’s awful, but...you don’t think I’m her...I mean—I’m not her. Obviously, I’m very much alive. Besides, I wasn’t born in Paris.” I exhaled. “What a strange coincidence that two people could have the same name, same blood type, and be the same age...” I said, trailing to a whisper then shivered to the bone. Not because I was cold. Shocked, to say the least. “How did she die, do you know?”

“Yes, she was pushed to her death.”

“You’re kidding me. Why? By who?” I asked, expecting answers.

He shook his head. “It’s unsolved. The information we have about her is vague...it appears the records were sealed—which is not an easy task to do...very uncommon.”

My brain ticked, trying to digest the freakish parallelism between her and I. What a twisted conundrum. Who was this other Brielle?

I wondered if she was identical to me in every way? A twin?
Wait, twins don’t share the same names.
I planned to figure this out. I wondered who killed her? I wondered if the man who appeared earlier in my doorway had mistaken me for her? What if he returned to finish the job? The fine hairs on my arms stood straight up! Major chills.

My mind raced. I flashed up at the doctor. What was he thinking?

Accessing the situation, I said, “Yes. Unsolved crimes are the worst...her family is probably mortified. If you don’t mind, I would like to see her death records. I’m very interested in figuring out who killed her.” I paused when I realized the doctor wasn’t buying my detective gig. I wasn’t sure why. Of course, I was interested in solving the mystery between she and I. What else could I say?

There had to be a simple explanation. This woman had stolen my identity, made fake birth records then when she died—was killed, her death was logged under my name. No wonder it was all sealed. But, why did she steal my identity in the first place?

I sighed inwardly, there was
no
convincing the doctor who I was. My knee-jerk reaction was to run, but the pain in my legs told me otherwise. Running was not an option.

“Do you think I’m lying about who I am?” I flat out asked.

He cocked his head, sighed and said, “It’s just the similarities between the two of you are...” His eyes searched for the words. He shrugged. “Well, it’s extremely odd—what are the chances of this—you have to agree.”

“Yes...it is—it’s unbelievable, sure...but, I can certainly prove who I am,” I asserted. “I have my passport and birth certificate at home. I can have one of my friends run me there to get them. I’ll come right back. I have no reason to steal this girl’s identity. I want this mystery solved as much as you do...okay?”

He studied me with suspicious eyes, but hesitated to speak.

“Okay?” I repeated.

Judging from his expression, it appeared that he still believed I had stolen the deceased woman’s identity. And, since I couldn’t remember much, like where I lived, I sensed it would be a problem if I couldn’t reach Nuilley. Where was Nuilley? Why wasn’t she out looking for me? This wasn’t like her. Maybe she had left France, perhaps she’d gone back to the states to visit her mother and stepfather, and I had forgotten that too. That had to be the answer; otherwise, she would have found me by now.

Nuilley was the type that would have demanded that the authorities conduct a massive manhunt if I’d been missing for more than 24 hours. She would have raised major hell until they did. I supposed she didn’t know I was missing yet. You usually have to be MIA for more than 48 hours before any one considers you a missing person. I hadn’t been gone that long.

There was an oppressive silence in the room. Outside was a different story. I could hear a plane in the distance, it was getting close fast, flying overhead. The engine sounded whiney and low to the ground, too low. I wanted to mention it, but hesitated to speak in the same manner he did. We were at a stand off.

The doctor’s eyes traced along the ceiling, following the sound of the plane’s motor; obviously he was concerned about how low it was too.

I tried not to look at him. It was time to put on my best poker face and hide any nervousness that registered in my eyes. I needed to remain confident and bold on the outside. Internally, my stomach twisted, uncontrollably. I was perplexed with the entire situation. On top of losing my memory and having my identity questioned, which was surreal enough, the plane had pushed my nerves to the edge. Why the heck didn’t we have CNN on, or whatever news channel they watched in Paris? I wondered if we were going to get bombed. I think the doctor did, too.

I pressed my lips firmly together
. Speak Doc!
And remarkably he did, but not until after he pulled his eyes from the ceiling. He shuddered when the plane’s engine dissipated into the distance.

“I am trying to believe everything that you are telling me. It’s just the coincidences between you and the deceased Brielle Eden, are far from coincidental. You have to understand the position this puts the hospital in. This news comes as a shock to us as well. I could only imagine how you must feel. I empathize with your situation, but if you can’t prove who you are I’ll be forced to report these additional findings to the local authorities. From there...well, who you truly are—let me just say it will be out of my hands from there. I’m sorry, but I’m left with no other choice. I hope you understand,” he informed me.

I detected a sincere tone in his voice. However, it was not the answer I hoped for. My tears released into a quiet sob. I needed to get out of there. Maybe even out of Paris for a while too. I had no idea where this confusion would lead.

His eyes furrowed, marring the line between his brows. He handed me a few tissues. I tried to ignore the flicker of uncertainty that lingered in his ardent eyes. This was not easy. His mouth began to move, but his words caught. Yet, his gauging eyes and silent thoughts had spoken louder than words ever would. He still didn’t believe me and that was obvious.

“Wait.” I perked up, sniffling between my words. I felt terribly alone, isolated and accused of an obscured crime that I knew nothing about. “I believe I have something that can prove who I am,” I gushed as tears poured from my eyes. They were long overdue. It had been such an emotional day. He looked at me curiously when I pulled the gown down and my hair off to the side, revealing the back of my right shoulder. “See?” I pointed to my one and only tattoo.