“Anna,” I said softly, “did he hurt you?”

She froze. Her eyes flickered—fear, guilt, hesitation—and then she whispered something that turned my blood cold.

“Richard… my name isn’t Anna.”

The room fell silent. My heart thudded painfully.

“What… what do you mean?”

She looked down, trembling.

“Anna was my sister.”

I staggered back. My mind spun. The girl I remembered—the one whose smile I’d carried for forty years—gone?

“She di:ed,” the woman whispered, tears streaming down her face. “She di:ed young. Our parents buried her quietly. But everyone always said I looked like her… talked like her… I was her shadow.