“Riley.” A name, she thought, to go with the face. “I know how this is going to sound, but . . . I’ve dreamed about you.”
Riley took another sip, smiled. “It sounds like you’re hitting on me. And you’re really pretty, Sasha, but—”
“No, no, I mean literally. I recognized you because I’ve dreamed about you, for months now.”
“Okay. What was I doing?”
“I can’t expect you to believe me. But the dreams are why I’m here, in Corfu. I don’t— Wait.” The sketches, she thought, and pushed to her feet.
A picture was worth a thousand, after all.
“I want to show you something. Will you wait until I come back?”
Riley only shrugged, lifted her glass. “I’ve got another drink coming, so I’ll be here for a while yet.”
“Five minutes,” Sasha promised, and hurried away.
Sipping her drink, Riley considered. She knew all about dreams, and wouldn’t discount them out of hand. She’d seen and experienced far too much in her life to discount anything out of hand.
And this Sasha Riggs struck her as sincere. Nervy, wound tight, but sincere. Still, she had her own reasons for being in Corfu, and they didn’t include starring in someone else’s dreams.
The waiter came back with a tray, set the drinks, a bowl of fat olives, another of fancy nuts on the table. “The other lady?” he asked.
“She forgot something. She’ll be right back.” Riley handed him her empty glass. “Efkharisto.”
She tried an almond, went back to contemplating the sea, glanced back again when she heard the hurried footsteps—wedged sandals on stone.
Sasha sat again, holding a leather portfolio. “I’m an artist,” she began.
“Congratulations.”
“I’ve had these dreams all winter. They started right after the first of the year. Every night.” Waking dreams, too, but she wasn’t ready to share that much. “I sketched the people, the places in them, the ones that kept reoccurring.”
She opened the portfolio, chose the sketch that had brought her to where she sat. “I drew this weeks ago.”
Riley took the sketch, lips pursing as she studied it. “You’re good, and yeah, this is Corfu.”
“And this is you.”
Sasha laid down a sketch, full body, of Riley. She wore cargo pants, hiking boots, a battered leather jacket, a wide-brimmed hat. Her hand rested on the butt of the knife sheathed at her belt.
As Riley lifted the sketch, Sasha set down another. “So is this.” A head-and-shoulders sketch this time, of Riley looking straight ahead with a curled-lip smile.
“What is this?” Riley muttered.
“I don’t know, and need to find out. I thought I was losing my mind. But you’re real, and you’re here. Like me. I don’t know about the others.”
“What others?”
“There are six of us, including me.” Sasha dug into the portfolio again. “Working together, traveling together.”
“I work alone.”
“So do I.” She felt giddy now, both vindicated and a little crazed. “I don’t know any of them.” She held out another sketch. “I have individual sketches of all of them, and others with some of us together, more with all of us, like this one. I don’t know them.”
The sketch showed Riley, dressed much as she’d been in the other, and Sasha, in boots, pants, a snap-brimmed hat rather than the sandals and flowy dress she wore now. Another woman with hair tumbling to her waist, and three men. Three hot men, Riley thought, all standing together on a trail, forested hills around them, grouped together as if posing for a photograph.
“You— Sasha, right?”