I ASK. “THE real or the copycat?” She scrunches her nose up. “I don’t know. But—” Gramps comes back out the door. “Dinner,” he annoyingly reminds me. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Listen, I’ll call you later,” Catalina promises. Reluctantly I go inside and sit through dinner, but all I can think about is what Catalina said. Someone’s come forward and can identify the Masked Savior. Or rather my copycat. Because I certainly didn’t abduct anybody. By eleven p.m. she still irritatingly has not called, and I’m not about to dial her. That would come across as too needy. I get my laptop instead and do a general search on Masked Savior and come up with a zillion links for people who want to hire me. Bizarre. I lie awake most of the night going through the time line.
