No longer in high spirits, he was crestfallen and looked helpless, as if the world had abandoned him. She had once seen him as a source of joy, but now Hannah saw a reflection of herself. Like her, he was deserted and had nowhere to go, despite his wealthy background.

Feeling sorry for both of them, she placed her hand on his. "Don't be afraid," she said. "What's past is past, and you still have me."

Ralph was confused. He noticed her hand—thin, closely spaced fingers, skin so fair the veins were barely visible. A sense of unease washed over him, and he suddenly seized her hand.

Startled, Hannah didn't pull away. He scrutinized her hand, then grabbed the other. He rubbed her fingers and palm, his confusion growing. Suddenly, he understood.

He'd always considered Heather odd, even psychopathic; seeing her in the psychiatric department confirmed his suspicions. But now… he knew why.

"You're not Heather Riggs! Who the hell are you?" Shocked by his discovery, he dropped her hands and recoiled.

He thought, She's not Heather! That woman had calluses from kickboxing training, strong fingers, and powerful hands. He’d never held Heather’s hands, but remembered her grip on his shoulder and wrist—powerful, with prominent joints. This woman's fingers were slender, soft, almost boneless, and her hands were smooth, lacking calluses.

This is wrong, so wrong! Yet she looks exactly like Heather. Her voice, gait, expression… everything! Shit! Am I the one with multiple personality disorder? Panicked, he stared at her. "If you're not Heather, who are you?"

Hannah, initially shocked, then grew surprised. She moved closer. "You could tell?"

After all these years, only her parents and a few close confidantes knew she and Heather were different people. Yet Ralph, without knowing Heather had a sister, had recognized the difference.