The Sword-Edged blonde by Alex Bledsoe

stare for a long minute before I finally asked the only question I could. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m Eddie LaCrosse.”
    She nodded. “Philip’s friend from childhood. The one who was there when his sister was killed.”
    “No!” I exclaimed. “Cathy Dumont’s friend! Thirteen years ago, remember?” I spoke more quietly, althoughI still felt like I was shouting. “You and I got to know each other
very well,
remember?”
    She looked me over, then said, “I’m sorry, sir, I have no memory of you. Perhaps without the beard—”
    “
I had the beard then!
” I shouted for real, and she backed away from the bars.
    “Please, sir, you’re scaring me,” she said, and wrapped her arms around herself. “I swear I don’t know you. Could you possibly be mistaken?”
    Even the voice was the same, with that slight trill of amusement under everything. “Maybe so, if you don’t have a horseshoe-shaped scar on the inside of your left thigh, and don’t enjoy having the back of your neck licked.”
    She blinked, startled. Now she was politely outraged at my insolence. “Sir, I assure you, I have no memory of you.”
    “But I’m right, aren’t I?”
    She turned away from the bars, and a red shine crept up her face. Only the best actresses, or con artists, could manage a blush on cue. “About the scar, yes. About the other . . . I don’t feel it would be polite to say.”
    My heart began to return to its normal rhythm, although I was sure it had burned a good six months off me in those brief moments. “So the name Stan Carnahan doesn’t ring a bell? Or Andrew Reese?”
    She shook her head and looked down. “Didn’t my husband tell you? I’m an amnesiac, Mr. LaCrosse. My life began six years ago. I recall nothing before that.”
    The woman I’d known as Epona Gray sported straight, dark hair, and as they say, I was mighty damn sure it was her natural color. This Queen Rhiannon had cascading, wavy hair the color of sunbeams. Moreover,if this was Epona Gray, she didn’t look a day older than when I last saw her. Could this be a relative? A daughter, perhaps?
    But no, the resemblance was
too
close, too identical. Every instinct told me this was the same woman. “So you never went by the name Epona Gray?”
    “I can’t say for certain.” She met my gaze with those big, innocent eyes that could probably convince the devil he needed an extra blanket. “I suppose it’s possible. The name Rhiannon just came to me shortly after I awoke. I assumed it was my own, but I could be wrong. No one’s suggested another one until now.”
    I took a moment to regain my composure, and began again. “All right. We’ll assume for the moment that I’m mistaken, although the resemblance is astounding. I’m here to help Phil, who wants to know the truth about what happened the night your son died.”
    The confusion and queenly reserve were instantly—almost as if on a well-rehearsed cue—replaced by a touching vulnerability. “You have to believe me, Mr. LaCrosse, I’m innocent. I didn’t kill my son.”
    I was on firmer ground now, questioning a suspect. “Then who did?”
    “That’s just it, he’s
not dead
,” she said urgently, and stepped toward the bars. She caught herself just before touching them, apparently remembering the rules. “I’d know if he was. I’m his mother, I’d be able to feel it. But no one believes me. They’re too busy convicting me to make any effort to find him.”
    “
I
believe you,” I said.
    “Do you?” she almost cried.
    I nodded, my practiced cool bouncing off her histrionics. “The body in that coffin was not your son. Itwasn’t even human, probably a monkey or something. But that doesn’t get me much closer to knowing who’s behind this, or what to do about it.”
    Relief, fear, desperation and finally cagey intelligence played over her exquisite face. I’d seen that same sly look on Eppie Gray, too, and it took all my concentration to stay on topic. The breeze