“No.” She shook her head. “Louisa said something about him having burns, but I don’t really know much more than that.”
“He had a stab wound to his arm.”
“I suppose I tried to stab him and set him on fire before trying to run him down with my car, then?” she replied, her irritation showing through.
“Sarcasm is counterproductive, Ms. West. Please refrain from it.”
She raised her brow at his deadpan response. “Could you please get to the point, Chief Walcott? I have no desire to spend any more of my day in here. I do actually have a job, you know, and I’m on a deadline. I don’t really have time to waste playing these games with you.”
“You stated you didn’t know or recognize the victim?” He ignored her curt reply.
“That’s right.” She shrugged. “I have no idea who he is.”
“Well, he seems to know you.”
“What?” she murmured in confusion.
Olivia watched curiously as he pulled a sheet of paper out of the file. It was enclosed in a clear plastic envelope that was sealed at the top with red evidence tape. Walcott slid it across the table. Her mouth fell open slightly, and she pulled in a slow breath as she picked it up and took in the fine lines of the sketch. It looked exactly like her.
She stared silently at the drawing. It seemed familiar somehow, the style of the artist, the paper, the pencil strokes. She was sure she’d seen some of the artist’s other work. She just couldn’t quite place it. Her gaze dipped to the lower corner searching for the initials of the artist.
TB. Theodore Beckett.
No, it couldn’t be.
“Did you speak with the guy? Has he regained consciousness yet?” she asked.
“Yes, we did,” Walcott replied. “He didn’t reveal much. Dr. Linden believes he is suffering from some kind of amnesia. He did, however, confirm that he drew that picture but didn’t know your name.”
“Impossible.” The word was out of her mouth before she could censor her reaction.
“What’s impossible?” He leaned forward, his eyes eager.
“Nothing,” she muttered.
She was almost certain that if this was truly a sketch by Theodore Beckett, the same Theodore Beckett referred to in Hester’s journal, then it couldn’t have been done by the man in the hospital. It was ridiculous. That would make him over three hundred years old. No, there had to be some other explanation.
Theodore Beckett’s journal and sketchbook were locked away in the trunk in her library with Hester’s journals. If he’d broken into her house and stolen the sketches, surely she’d have known. Besides, Hester’s trunk was protected by magic, so there was no way some random stranger would be able to access it. And why the hell a picture of her?
Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was a picture of Hester—after all, there was a strong familial resemblance. Her gaze fell back to the drawing in her hand. The problem was, it didn’t look like Hester. It looked like her.
What the hell was going on?
Chief Walcott watched her, his expression intense.
“Ms. West, do you recognize this picture?”
“No.” She dropped the sketch back on the table.
“You’re lying,” he accused.
“Why don’t you prove it?” Her gaze hardened and she once again leaned back in her chair as the chief glared at her. “I need to use the restroom.”
His jaw tightened. “Deputy Carl, would you be so good as to show Ms. West where the restroom is?”
“Sir.” He nodded and beckoned Olivia to follow him.
With an arrogant tilt of her head, she stood. As she swept past the chief, the door opened and Deputy Hanson walked in, holding onto a laptop.
