Jeffrey's hands trembled. His mind screamed for denial, but the truth loomed before him, cold and undeniable.
His gaze flickered to Joanne, asleep in the dim glow of the bedside lamp—serene, untouched by the storm raging inside him.
Everything he knew about her… Everything he thought she was…
No. It couldn't be.
Gripping the photograph tightly, he rushed to his room, his pulse thundering in his ears. His fingers tore through the drawer, searching, desperate. It had been days since he last looked at it—days since he let himself remember.
But now, he had to know.
When he finally found it, his breath hitched. His hands shook so violently that the worn edges of the picture crinkled under his grip. He didn't want it to be true. He wanted to be wrong.
Yet, as he laid both pictures side by side on the bed, his stomach twisted.
The curve of the jawline. The curl of the hair at the exact place. The background color.
It was the same picture.
The same woman.
Smith.
