CHAPTER THREE
Despite the delicious scent of freshly baked cinnamon rolls that Lucy just pulled from the oven, nausea sweeps through me. A salty line of cold sweat beads are forming on the upper outline of my top lip. It’s been a week since Dad’s party, and the queasy feeling returns to my body every time I recall the haunting wink I got from Mac after he proposed to that woman who looks exactly like me. His words from that day at the Amtrak station ring over and over in my ears. “Trust me; I have a thing about faces. Especially pretty, detailed ones like yours.”
In the far corner, opposite the restrooms, I sit and stew. The screen from my laptop stares at me, taunting me. Multiple tabs are pulled up. The one and only tab I should be focused on leads to nothing but a blank document, abse
