monthsâher entire After Dana lifeâin hospitals living with medical staff and other brain-injured patients with little connection to or interest in the rest of the world.
Her attention was on the bouquet of pink balloons that adorned a copper mailbox at the end of the street. The house beyond that mailbox was homeâa large brick house with blue shutters and interesting rooflines and a yard to showcase the talents of Mercer-Nolan Landscape Design.
They pulled into the driveway, drawing alongside a black Mercedes SUV with a red, white, and blue sticker in the back window: REELECT MERCE R/STATE SENATE . The front door of the house swung open and Roger came out to meet them followed by a younger man Dana didnât recognize.
Roger looked like a man an ad agency would choose to star in a commercial for real estate or home insuranceâtall, handsome, with dark hair swept back and Clark Kent glasses. His smile was broad and white. He came around the hood of the car and opened Danaâs door.
âWelcome home, sweetheart!â he said cheerfully, leaning toward her. âHow was your drive down?â
âI donât know,â Dana said. She stared down at the clasp of her seat belt, momentarily stumped as to how to open it. âI wasnât there.â
âShe fell asleep,â her mother qualified, reaching over the console with impatient hands to unfasten the belt.
âWhat are those people doing here?â Lynda snapped, her irritation directed at her husband. âThey have no business being here now.â
âI donât control the media, Lynda.â
âHow did they find out Dana was coming home?â
âI donât know,â he answered with sarcasm. âMaybe a dozen pink balloons tied to the mailbox isnât a good way to keep a secret.â
âCan you fight later?â Dana asked. âI want to get out of the car.â
Roger offered her a hand to help her out of the vehicle. She straightened slowly as she got out, stiff and achy from the long ride, but she let go of Rogerâs hand quickly, nevertheless.
She cut a glance at the other man, who stood behind her stepfather. He looked to be in his thirties, with a blocky build and a doughy face. He was buttoned up and professional in a jacket and tie, his thin brown hair combed flat to his head. He stared at her with carefully concealed shock. Dana could see it in his eyes and instantly disliked him for it.
âWho is he?â she asked bluntly, tugging the edges of her hood forward.
Roger glanced over his shoulder. âWesley Stevens. Heâs helping run my campaign.â
âWhy is he here?â
Roger forced a laugh. âSo many questions!â He moved to hug her. âWelcome home, sweetheart.â
Dana stepped back against the car, frowning. âYou already said that. Donât touch me. I donât like to be touched.â
His frown was fleeting, and he quickly turned around even as his eyes darted to the left, looking for witnesses. âIâm sorry, honey. I just want to give you a hug. Iâm happy to have you home. Weâve missed you!â
âThen you should have come to visit me more,â Dana said with simple logic.
âI wish I could have.â
âHow does it feel to have your stepdaughter home, Senator? How does it feel to be home, Dana?â
Dana turned toward the source of the questions. The reporter was standing at the end of the drive maybe a dozen feet behind her motherâs carâa petite blonde with a professional smile that wavered badly as Dana faced her.
âHow does it feel to be home?â she asked again.
Dana stared at her. They were about the same size. The reporterâs hair was cut in a shoulder-length bob, just as Danaâs had been before it had been shorn off in the hospital. Her blue wool blazer could have come straight from Danaâs own closet.
Oh my God, I used to be her,
she
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