He could have sworn that the girl had been dead when he left her in that storeroom, yet here she was, walking, talking and sitting in the back of Nellie Coker’s Bentley. And not only that—there were now two of them, as if she’d multiplied in there. They were so alike that he didn’t know which was the real Freda Murgatroyd. Now Oakes had two problems on his hands.
