As they ambled through the garden, she handed him a sandwich, assuming he had forgotten to eat lunch. “Thanks,” he said. “I forgot to eat lunch.” “I’m off the case,” she said, looking at him with odd satisfaction. “And guess what, Eleanor Drummond doesn’t exist.” “She’s a very convincing illusion.” “Do you think so?” “She was Griffin’s witness. Does that mean you’re not his executrix?” “Executor. I had my signature notarized downtown. I’m it. You can call yourself anything you want as long as there’s no attempt to defraud. It isn’t illegal to be Eleanor Drummond. Just strange. She’s alive for a few hours a week, then what becomes of her?” “Vampire?” “She has no past.” “Or too much. What about a driver’s licence?” “Dead end.” Miranda wondered for a moment if irony was innate, then continued. “She listed this as her address. Her credit cards are paid up and use this address. Griffin is her guarantor. But she’s never lived here, Morgan.
