The death of a look-alike stranger leads a grieving woman down a troubling path in this riveting novel by A. J. Banner, bestselling author of The Poison Garden. Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from A. J. Banner’s In Another Light, which releases on October 5th 2021.
Three years ago mortuary cosmetologist Phoebe Glassman lost her husband in a tragic accident. No longer the hopeful wife and mother she once was, Phoebe is disappearing into her grief and into the quietude of her job—restoring to the dead the illusion of life. Then the body of a woman named Pauline Steele arrives in the mortuary, and for Phoebe, everything changes.
Pauline is unmistakably Phoebe’s mirror image and bears an alarmingly familiar tattoo. Even more startling is that among Pauline’s effects is a faded photograph of Phoebe. Aided by an eccentric colleague, her curiosity sparked, Phoebe investigates her doppelgänger’s life and death—and uncovers surprising clues to a shared past.
Phoebe’s emotional journey soon leads to shocking revelations about those closest to her…and even herself. When she’s driven to the brink, how much of what she discovers can she trust?
…Phoebe quickly finishes her lunch. She should work on Elvis, but she needs to see what Mike is up to. She is halfway down the hall when a text pops up on her cell phone from Renee. Come to prep room two. Don’t let anyone see you.
Serendipity—I’m almost there, Phoebe thinks, her fingers hovering over the screen. Maybe the “unusual transfer” from the coroner is freaking out Renee. She was always squeamish, even in grade school. And this is not her normal profession, nothing much like fashion retail.
On my way, Phoebe texts back.
When she opens the door to the prep room, Renee whips around, her cheeks flushed, the clip at the back of her head barely restraining her luxurious reddish hair. She looks refined in layered New York street style—black ankle boots, wide-leg pants, and a patterned turtleneck sweater to add a touch of the bohemian. She has always had a natural, unique sense of style that Phoebe could never match. Even the freckles on her face seem placed there to enhance her beauty. She presses a finger to her lips, rushes past Phoebe to shut the door.
“What’s going on?” Phoebe asks. The faint, putrid odor of death wafts through the air. The stark fluorescent bulb leaches all warmth and color from the room. Everything appears gray, metallic, lifeless.
Renee has gone pale, her eyes wide. “Barry said not to show you.”
“Mike warned me, too. What gives?”
“You should take a look. But brace yourself.”
“I’m fine,” Phoebe says with confidence. She approaches the body, folds back the sheet to reveal the face of the decedent on the table. The dead woman is slim, her unruly hair a dull brown. Her skin looks pale beneath the unsparing light, which is much harsher than the gentle pink lights installed in the family viewing rooms.
“Phoebe . . . I’ll get in trouble,” Renee says softly. “You can’t tell Barry I showed you—”
“I’ll take responsibility,” Phoebe says, moving in closer to examine the telltale signs of a partial autopsy—the cut lines on the woman’s forehead, barely hidden by the hairline, the vertical line of sutures at the top of the sternum, above the sheet, which reveals only her shoulders, neck, and head. Her skin has darkened in some areas, bruised by lividity, from her blood settling due to gravity. There is no way to know what color her eyes were in life. They’ve sunk into recessed clouds. Her mouth yawns open, a natural occurrence after death.
The woman was young, nobody Phoebe recognizes. But as she gazes at the woman’s face, her nerve endings catch fire. The woman’s chin, her high forehead, her oval face, the shape of her nose, streamlined except for a small bump halfway down.
“Holy crap,” Phoebe says, stepping backward, slammed by what she is seeing.
“I shouldn’t have shown you,” Renee says, rushing to yank up the sheet, but Phoebe grabs her arm and says, “Leave it.” Her breathing comes in fast, shallow gasps.
Keep it together, Phoebe tells herself. You’re used to this. You’ve done this before.
“Here, sit down,” Renee says, pulling up a chair, but Phoebe waves her arm dismissively, unable to tear her gaze from the woman on the table. She is a younger version of Phoebe, nearly her exact double.
