Chapter 7 - The Face In The Mirror
Detective Vance hauled the handcuffed intruder to his feet, guiding him firmly toward the bedroom door while Sarah Jenkins comforted a weeping Lily in the hallway. Mark remained on his knees amidst the shattered glass and ruined clothes, the stranger’s words echoing relentlessly in his head like a slow-moving train wreck.
Ask him who the hell he thinks he actually married.
Mark stood up slowly, his legs feeling weak and unsteady. He walked over to the mahogany nightstand where the wedding photo lay smashed on the floor. He ignored the broken glass, kneeling down to pick up the frame. The photograph showed a younger, happier Mark and Clara on a sunlit beach in Florida, smiling brightly into the camera. But as Mark stared at Clara’s face, a sudden, horrifying realization gripped his chest.
They hadn't met in Florida. They had met in Chicago, at a mutual friend's art gallery opening, five years after that beach photo was supposedly taken. Clara had always been vague about her past, claiming her parents died in a car accident when she was a teenager and that she had no living relatives. Mark had never questioned it. He had loved her, trusted her, and built an entire life with her.
"Mr. Evans?" Detective Vance called out from the hallway, his voice bringing Mark crashing back to the present. "We need you in the living room. Now."
Mark walked out of the master bedroom, leaving the mess behind. In the bright, modern living room, the handcuffed intruder was sitting on the edge of the gray sofa, wiping blood from his split lip with a tissue. Sarah Jenkins was kneeling nearby, speaking in soothing tones to Lily, who had finally stopped crying and was nibbling on a juice box Sarah had retrieved from the kitchen.
Detective Vance stood near the front window, keeping a watchful eye on the man.
"Alright," Vance said, turning his attention to Mark as he entered the room. "The perimeter officers outside didn't let this man in. He bypassed them by climbing the rear second-story balcony using the trellis. That means he knew the layout of this house intimately. State your name for the record, mister."
The intruder looked up, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Mark with an expression of bitter resignation.
"My name is David Miller," the man said, his voice raspy. "And I am Clara’s actual husband."
The living room went dead silent. The hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen sounded like a roaring jet engine.
Mark stared at the man, a harsh, disbelieving laugh escaping his lips.
"What kind of sick game are you playing?" Mark demanded, stepping forward angrily. "I am Clara's husband. We've been married for three years. We bought this house together!"
David Miller let out a dry, humorless chuckle, shaking his head.
"Did you? Or did Clara buy this house using the identity she stole from a dead girl in Oregon, funded by the offshore accounts she emptied out after framing me for corporate embezzlement?"
David reached into the inner pocket of his ruined leather jacket with handcuffed hands, pulling out a crumpled, laminated document and tossing it onto the glass coffee table.
Mark stepped closer, his heart pounding against his ribs, and looked down at the paper. It was a certified marriage certificate dated six years ago.
The groom was David Miller. The bride was Clara Vance.
Only the photo attached to Clara's legal identity didn't match the woman currently sitting in the back of the police cruiser outside.
May you like
It was a completely different woman.
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