"You're both driving me crazy," Jane Horner said.
"You call the cops," Overman-in-Horner a asked.
"Not yet. I'll give you both a chance. You," she gestured at Overman, "weren't acting yourself since you came home last night. You acted—well—cruel. That's the only way I can describe it."
"Of course he wasn't acting himself," Horner-in-Overman said. "Because he isn't—me."
"That makes sense, don't it?" Overman sneered.
"And you wouldn't say 'don't it,'" Jane told him. "And you," she said to Horner, "when you let go of me I knew I was going to hit you with the pitcher and I couldn't stop it, even when I wanted to when you said that about Jones Beach. We—we were alone, my husband and me. But how could you be my husband? You don't look like him. You—you're young enough to be my—my son."
"Ask him," Horner said, pointing at the bound Overman, "ask him about Jones Beach." Horner smiled grimly, waiting. His own memory of Overman's life was only fair, and spotty, and certainly not very good on particular details. Overman's of his would be the same.
"What happened at Jones Beach before we were married?" Jane asked Overman.
"Twenty years ago? How the hell should I remember?"
"He remembered," said Jane in a bewildered voice, pointing at Horner.