Photographs of Genevieve brought tears to her eyes. And here was a picture of her father as a boy—how mischievous he looked. Who was the little girl with him? Funny, she looked a little like Jenna Sorrel. A few letters that meant nothing to Laila. An odd one from someone named Amira, extending condolences about Genevieve and adding that Amira herself was well and doing work she loved. Vague explanations of why she hadn’t written before. Karim was fine, too. Karim? Well, the name was common in the Arab world. Probably this was some old flame of her father’s, hoping to slip back into the picture after Genevieve’s death.

Another photograph, a formal portrait, but small, the size a man might carry in his wallet. A striking young woman in Remali dress. Oddly familiar. Where had Laila seen that face? Suddenly, a chill ran up her spine. My God, it was like looking in a mirror!

Laila spread the papers on her father’s desk and went through them more carefully. There was no birth certificate, but she found a marriage license for her parents. They had married when she was four years old, nearly five. And there was a little ledger with a record of monthly cash payments to someone in al-Re- mal—a name Laila didn’t recognize, in a town, if that was what it was, she’d never heard of. The first payment had been made the month she was born.

She looked up from the desk. On the facing wall was an oil portrait of her grandmother, Jihan, who had posed for it against her husband’s wishes and had given it to Malik to remember her by in France. Laila had always studied the face, searching for signs of Jihan’s tragic fate, but now she noticed the hands—and a ring, a star sapphire in an unusual setting. She had seen that ring before. Jenna Sorrel had been wearing it.

Suddenly, it all began to make sense. And yet, it didn’t. It couldn’t. It would mean that her whole identity was a kind of illusion. She wasn’t who she thought she was, and never had been. Her father had lied to her. Her mother, too—if Genevieve was, in fact, her mother. And Jenna—or whatever her real name was.

Yet, it was Jenna she decided to call. There was no answer at the apartment in Boston. Laila tried the office. Dr. Sorrel was out of town. No, she couldn’t be reached. Was this a patient? No? Well, was there some emergency? If so, the names of other therapists could be provided.

Laila hung up. She couldn’t call Malik. She wouldn’t call David. He would think she was crazy. Maybe she was.