“No, no.” She was shaking her head, disbelieving, trying to wrap her near-crazed mind around what she was seeing. “That’s not right!” she whispered, attempting to get a grip on herself “Not a snake . . . this is all wrong.” Remembering the mountain and a bloody heart on her captor’s arm, she felt sick inside. She was wrong. This wasn’t the creep. The man standing before her had a straighter nose and, of course, that tiny scar, faint but discernable, from years past. She was sure the freak didn’t have one there. Finally, her heartbeat slowing, the truth that had been dawning taking hold, she admitted, “The tattoo was way different, like that of a mountain and a bloody heart, some weird crap like that.” Oh, God, she wanted this man to be her would-be killer, to see him in custody, in handcuffs and shackles, behind bars or worse. She tried to think straight, to push past her pain and exhaustion, her hunger and dehydration, but she couldn’t and felt her knees start to give.

For the first time she noticed how many of the cops had left their desks, their expressions interested and wary, some with hands on their weapons as they collected around the tense group clogging the hallway. All staring at her.

“What . . . what about some kind of mole?” she asked in desperation. “On your . . . ?” She turned her gaze to the cop who had walked out of the office with the freak. “On his butt cheek.”

Selma took in a swift breath. “You saw him without clothes?”

“Except for a rubber apron. Yeah.” But if this wasn’t the guy, then, oh God, Chloe was still in the maniac’s clutches . . . or worse.

“You want me to drop trou? Would that convince you?” the guy demanded and before she could answer, without batting an eye, turned around and let his pants fall from his buttocks. The cop stared at them all as if they were all ceritifiable while more and more people gathered around.

“Hey! I don’t think that’s necessary, Bridges!” the cop said as some Hispanic dude with a goatee and diamond stud earring swaggered around the corner and stopped short.

“Whoa! What the hell kind of freak show is this?” he demanded, eyeing the gathering crowd. He acted like a cop, too—kinda—but he was wearing a black leather jacket and a bad-boy attitude that were at odds with him being a part of the force.

“This is Zoe Denning,” the first cop said, and then to Zoe, his face all serious intensity as he motioned to the guy who had just shown his buttocks. “Is this your abductor?”

“No,” she admitted, as the guy pulled up his pants and, his expression no longer of surprise, adjusted his shirt. “No, it can’t be. But—”

“But,” he said, his eyes darkening, “I look enough like him to be his twin.”