Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

Bennie thought back to the trial. The fighting that Mrs. Lambertsen had heard. It hadn’t been Della Porta and the cops. It had been Della Porta and her father.

“So I shot him. I didn’t plan to. There was no other way. He would have ruined her. He’d choke the life from her if I let him. Like a weed.”

Bennie felt a wrenching deep within her chest. She wasn’t sure if she could speak. She didn’t try.

“Don’t let it upset you, child. He was destroying Alice. I had to take care of her. I’m her father.”

Bennie shook her head, uncomprehending. “You killed a human being.”

“For Alice, I did it for Alice. To save her.”

“Save her? You put her on the hook.”

Winslow’s upper lip twitched slightly. “I didn’t know she’d be charged with the murder.”

Bennie could barely imagine it. “But you let your child be charged with a murder you committed.”

“That’s why I showed myself. Told her to call you. I knew you’d prove her innocent.”

“But what if I hadn’t?” Bennie exploded, bewildered. “I almost didn’t, don’t you realize that? It took everything I had- everything- and I almost got killed! You killed a man. You almost killed both of your children!”

Winslow looked at her without batting an eye. “If you hadn’t won, I would have come forward. They wouldn’t have sent Alice to jail then.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? They wouldn’t have believed you. I barely believe you!”

“Oh, they would have believed me. I kept the gun. The murder weapon.”

The statement shocked Bennie into silence. The only sound in the still cottage was the shallow huff of her own breathing.

Winslow closed the box and looked to the window. “Too bad it’s dark outside, I’d show you my garden. The foxglove is in and the rudbeckia just blooming. It took decades to make that garden. It needed to be weeded, tended. Gardens, they need tending.”

Bennie’s mind reeled. She felt almost dizzy, sick to her stomach. She didn’t know what to do, what to say. She had wondered about her father her whole life but couldn’t bear to be in his presence a moment longer. He made her skin crawl. He was crazy, insane; he had to be. She swallowed her rising gorge, turned on her heel, and hurried to the door of the cottage. She banged open the screen door, heard it sham behind her, and didn’t look back. She ran to the Saab, twisted on the ignition, and drove off in a cold, scared sweat.

It took Bennie all the way to the Pennsylvania border to calm her stomach and begin to understand her reaction. It only became clear because the farther she drove from Winslow’s cottage, the easier she breathed. Her heart rate returned to normal. Her viscera stilled. Her tongue tasted vaguely of bile, but she gritted her teeth, stiff-armed the Saab, and steered into the night, racing to lay down as much mileage as possible between her and Winslow.

A lifetime of distance.

Bennie’s hair whipped from her face and she hit the gas. The Saab responded as soon as its winded turbos allowed. The car was almost ten years old and Grady had bought it used, but he took care of his car. She thought about Grady then. He took care of things he loved, like his ancient Saab, and her. He made Bennie coffee, held her when she needed it, even backed off when she didn’t. Grady was a caretaker of things that caused trouble, talked back, and fell into foul and selfish moods. Of things that could hurt and wound. Of things imperfect.

Of human beings.

Bennie floored the gas pedal when she spotted the orange lights of the airport that marked Philadelphia’s southern perimeter. Oil refineries encircled the airport and spewed billows of pollution into the summer night. The air hung a hazy orange and smelled like dry-cleaning chemicals. Still, Bennie felt the urge to go faster, to get to Philly. To a city that smelled like a catalytic converter. To a house that had boxes for furniture and exposed lath for wallpaper. To a man who loved her and took care of her when she needed it. To a dog that would never, ever come when he was called.

Bennie wanted to go home. So she drove as far as she could from her father, as fast as she could go, and sped home, there to meet her family.

For the first time.

It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I found out about my sister. Technically she’s a half-sister, but when we first met she struck me instantly as a twin-close in age and very much alike in looks, temperament, and manner. I am only now starting to know her and come to admire the journey she took to make her way to me. She is obviously not the twin depicted in Mistaken Identity -that much must be crystal clear-but it should come as no surprise that authors often cannibalize their own lives for the truth that makes fiction. My meeting her suggested the gravamen of this novel. For her bravery and heart, as well as her openness and honesty, Mistaken Identity is dedicated to her, J.

Special thanks, as always, to my agent Molly Friedrich for her on-the-mark improvements to this manuscript, as well as her expertise, support, and kindness. Thanks to Carolyn Marino, my editor at HarperCollins, who has steered me through six books with this one, yet her support and grace never flags. Thanks also to A. Paul Cirone, for his help, Robin Stamm, for hers, and a bear hug to Laura Leonard at HarperCollins, friend and publicist, who is always cheering for me.

As usual, I got lots of help on the technical aspects of this book, and any mistakes in that regard are my own. Heartfelt thanks to the detectives of the Two Squad of the Philadelphia Police Department, who remain helpful and supportive and serve my hometown in every way. Thanks again to criminal lawyers Susan Burt and especially Glenn Gilman, for superb legal advice in the clutch. Thanks to Nina Segre and Karen Senser, for their insights into women-owned law firms, and their kindness. Thanks to Bob Eskind of the Philadelphia prison system, whose information and access helped me create the fictional prison herein.

Thanks for her time and help to Dr. Jeanne Paulus-Thomas, Ph.D., and her colleagues at the Center for Medical Genetics, Allegheny Health, Education and Research Foundation. Thanks to Doug and Cindy Claffey, who are great friends and who helped with the twin research, firsthand.

There are also great and informative books about twins, reared together and apart, which informed my novel, and for those who want to read more, see Torrey, Bowler, Taylor, and Gottesman, Schizophrenia and Manic-Depressive Disorder, HarperCollins (1994); Farber, Identical Twins Reared Apart, Basic Books (1981); Loehlin and Nichols, Heredity, Environment and Personality, University of Texas Press (1976); and Juel-Nielsen, Individual and Environment: Monozygotic Twins Reared Apart, International Universities Press (1965); Schwartz, The Culture of the Copy, Zone Books (1996).

Thanks to the folks at a certain gym in Philadelphia, who helped so much with the boxing details and gave me boxing lessons, which I’m sure will come in handy in an alley. Thanks to my anonymous boxer, who gave me insight into the men (and women) who box.

Thanks to the leadership and the librarians of the Free Library of Philadelphia, who let me run wild through the stacks and who have been so supportive of my books over the years. And to Dr. Paul Bookman.

Thanks to my readers, who have been so kind and whom I always remember when I write, and to my many “online editors” who participated in a wonderful experiment to improve the first chapter.

Final thanks and all my love to my family, my parents, and my husband and daughter.