But that was impossible.
Because the woman they belonged to had been dead for twenty-seven years.
Phoebe went pale.
For the first time since I had known her, Phoebe Lang looked completely unprepared.
Cordelia whispered one word.
“Eleanor.”
The stranger smiled.
“Hello, Cordelia.”
My knees nearly gave way.
My grandmother’s name had been Eleanor Mercer.
But my grandmother was dead.
Or so I had always believed.
I looked at Phoebe.
“What is happening?”
Phoebe couldn’t answer.
The woman walked toward us.
She stopped three feet away.
Then she looked directly at me.
“Sloan.”
My throat closed.
The resemblance was no longer subtle.
Her eyes.
Her cheekbones.
The tiny indentation in her chin.
I had seen all of it in old photographs.
“You’re…”
“I am not Eleanor Mercer.”
Cordelia looked as if she might faint.
The woman turned toward her.
“But you thought I was.”
I stared.
“What?”
