Secret Service agent Laurel Rose was buried with honor, and her name immortalized among those others who had given their lives in the performance of their duties. Adam Heyes was severely wounded, his recovery taking months, and had to retire from the Service. After several months, the agent who had shot and killed the first lady, Tyrone Ebert, quietly resigned from the Service.

And the government ticked on, the wheels turning, the papers being shuffled, the computers humming.

Chapter One

IT WAS A normal morning. Lizette Henry-Liz to her co-workers, Liz or Lizzie to her friends, and once upon a time Zette-the-Jet to her family and childhood friends-rolled out of bed at her usual time of 5:59 normal morning. Lizette Henry-Liz to her co-workers, Liz or Lizzie to her friends, and once upon a time Zette-the-Jet to her family and childhood friends-rolled out of bed at her usual time of 5:59 A.M. A.M., one minute before her alarm was set to go off. In the kitchen, the automatic timer on the coffeemaker would have just started the brewing process. Yawning, Lizette went into her bathroom, turned on the water in the shower, then while the water was heating she took a desperately needed pee. By the time she was finished, the water in the shower was just right.

She liked starting her mornings off with a nice relaxing shower. She didn't sing, she didn't plan her day, she didn't worry about politics or the economy or anything else. While she was in the shower, she simply chilled-or more aptly, warmed.

On this particular June morning, her routine so honed and finely tuned she didn't need to look at a clock to know what time it was at any point during that routine, she showered for almost precisely how long it would take the coffeemaker to finish its brewing process, then wrapped a towel around her wet hair and dried herself with a second towel.

Though the open door of the bathroom, the wonderful aroma of the coffee called to her. The bathroom mirror was fogged over with steam, but it would be clear by the time she fetched her first cup of the morning. Wrapping herself in her knee-length terry-cloth robe, she went barefoot into the kitchen and grabbed one of the mugs from the cabinet. She liked her coffee sweet and light, so she added sugar and milk first, then poured the hot coffee into the mixture. It was like having a dessert first thing in the morning, which in her book was a nice way to start off any day.

She took the coffee with her into the bathroom, to sip while she blow-dried her hair and put on the small amount of makeup she wore to work.

Setting the cup on the vanity, she unwound the towel from her head and bent over from the waist, vigorously rubbing her shoulder-length dark brown hair. Then she straightened, tossing her hair back, and turned to the mirror- -and stared into the face of a stranger.

The damp towel slid from her suddenly nerveless fingers, puddling on the floor at her feet.

Who was that woman?

It wasn't her. Lizette knew what she looked like, and this wasn't her reflection. She whirled wildly around, looking for the woman reflected in the mirror, ready to duck, ready to run, ready to fight for her life, but no one was there. She was alone in the bathroom, alone in the house, alone- Alone.

The word whispered through her mind, a ghost of a sound, barely registering. Turning back to the mirror, she fought through confusion and terror, studying this new person as though she were an adversary rather than...rather than what? Or, who? who?

This didn't make sense. Her breathing came in swift, shallow gulps, the sound distant and panicked. What the h.e.l.l was going on? She didn't have amnesia. She knew who she was, where she was, remembered her childhood, her friends, what clothes were in her closet, and what she'd planned to wear today. She remembered what she'd had for dinner the night before. She remembered everything, it seemed-except that face. shallow gulps, the sound distant and panicked. What the h.e.l.l was going on? She didn't have amnesia. She knew who she was, where she was, remembered her childhood, her friends, what clothes were in her closet, and what she'd planned to wear today. She remembered what she'd had for dinner the night before. She remembered everything, it seemed-except that face.

It wasn't hers.

Her own features, what she saw in her mind, were softer, rounder, maybe even prettier, though the face she was looking at was attractive, if more angular. The eyes were the same: blue, the same distance apart, maybe a little more deeper set. How was that possible? How could her eyes have gotten more deep set?

What else was the same? She leaned closer to the mirror, looking for the faint freckle on the left side of her chin. Yes, there it was, where it had always been; darker when she'd been younger, almost invisible now, but still there.

Everything else was...wrong. This nose was thinner and more aquiline; her cheekbones more prominent, higher than they should have been; her jawline was more square, her chin more defined.

She was so completely befuddled and frightened that she stood there, paralyzed, incapable of any action even if one had occurred to her. She kept staring into the mirror, her thoughts darting around in search of any reasonable explanation.

There wasn't one. What could account for this? If she'd been in an accident and required ma.s.sive facial restructuring, while she might not remember the accident itself, surely she'd remember afterward, know if she'd been in a hospital and undergone multiple surgeries, remembered the rehab; someone would have told told her about everything, even if she'd been in a coma during her recovery. But she hadn't been in a coma. Ever. her about everything, even if she'd been in a coma during her recovery. But she hadn't been in a coma. Ever.

She remembered remembered her life. There hadn't been any accident, except for the one when she was eighteen that had killed her parents and turned her world completely upside down, but she hadn't been in the car; she'd dealt with the aftermath, with the crushing grief, the sense of floating untethered in the black s.p.a.ce of her life with all of her former security gone in the s.p.a.ce of a heartbeat. her life. There hadn't been any accident, except for the one when she was eighteen that had killed her parents and turned her world completely upside down, but she hadn't been in the car; she'd dealt with the aftermath, with the crushing grief, the sense of floating untethered in the black s.p.a.ce of her life with all of her former security gone in the s.p.a.ce of a heartbeat.

She had that same feeling now, of such unfathomable wrongness wrongness that she didn't know what to do, couldn't take in all the meanings at once, couldn't grasp how fully this affected everything she knew. that she didn't know what to do, couldn't take in all the meanings at once, couldn't grasp how fully this affected everything she knew.

Maybe she was crazy. Maybe she'd had a stroke during the night. Yes. A stroke; that would make sense, because it could screw with her memory. To test herself, she smiled, and in the mirror watched both sides of her mouth turn up evenly. In turn, she winked each eye. Then she held both arms up. They both worked, though after showering and washing her hair she thought she'd have already noticed if one of them hadn't.

"Ten, twelve, one, forty-two, eighteen," she whispered. Then she waited thirty seconds and said them again. "Ten, twelve, one, forty-two, eighteen." She was certain she'd said the same numbers, in the same sequence, though if she'd had a stroke would she be in any shape to judge?

Brain and body both appeared to be in working order, so that likely ruled out a stroke.

Now what?

Call someone. Who?

Diana. Of course. Her best friend would know, though Lizette wasn't certain how she could possibly phrase the question. Hey, Di; when I get to work this morning, look at me and let me know if I have the same face today that I had yesterday, okay? Hey, Di; when I get to work this morning, look at me and let me know if I have the same face today that I had yesterday, okay?

The idea was ludicrous, but the need was compelling.

Lizette was already on her way to the phone when sudden panic froze her in midstep.

No.

She couldn't call anyone.

If she did, they they would know. would know.

They? Who was "they?"