Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO BORROWED A FACE
At six the next morning, Chicago looked as if someone had washed all the color out of it.
Rain slipped down the clinic window. Dr. Mercer had insisted I stay overnight for observation after examining my injured eye. I woke with my arm elevated on a pillow and my back aching beneath fresh dressings. For one blessed second, I forgot the wedding certificate, the fake Gabriel on the camera, and the telephone voice that knew about my father.
Then my phone vibrated.
Sophie had sent a photograph of Dad asleep in his recliner, our old terrier pressed against his legs. Underneath she wrote: He asked why you missed dinner. I said work ran late. Are you okay?
I stared at the message. I could tell her I was safe, but I wasn't sure it was true.
I typed, I'm hurt, but the doctor has seen me. I'll explain in person. Please lock the doors and don't open up for strangers.
Her reply came instantly: OLIVIA WHAT HAPPENED?
Before I could answer, someone knocked.
Gabriel stood beyond the door, holding two paper cups of coffee. He hadn't slept; I could see it in the shadow beneath his eyes. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a strange sight after months of seeing him in immaculate suits.
“I can come back,” he said.
“It's okay.”
He set one cup beside my bed. “Decaf. Mercer said you'd had pain medication.”
“You listen to doctors?”
“Occasionally. They find it upsetting.”
I almost smiled.
He pulled a chair closer but didn't sit until I nodded. Outside, a delivery truck hissed past on wet pavement.
“The police interviewed Bianca last night,” he said. “She admits she's legally married to Adrian. She claims the transfer documents were his idea, and she insists she thought their marriage had been annulled.”
“Did you believe her?”
“No.” He rubbed his eyes. “I believed I knew her. That was my first mistake.”
I thought of Bianca's diamond ring striking my face. “She's not a person who makes mistakes when she hurts someone.”
Gabriel looked at my bandaged arm. “I should have noticed how she treated people before last night.”
I wanted to accept his apology, but some truth sat between us. He hadn't asked to be deceived. Still, people in his house had learned how to behave around him, and certain cruelties had flourished in the spaces he never examined.
“Maybe you should ask the staff what else you missed,” I said.
He regarded me for a moment. “I will.”
At nine, Miriam arrived with another attorney, a short, quick-speaking man named Samuel Park, who specialized in property disputes. They had secured an emergency hearing that afternoon seeking to halt registration of the transfer. The county recorder's office had received the papers, but the ownership changes were not yet beyond challenge.
“Good,” Gabriel said.
“Not done,” Samuel corrected. “The papers have what appear to be your signature, a notarial seal, and the signature of a second witness. Until a court sees sufficient evidence of fraud, someone may attempt to exercise rights under them.”
“Who's the witness?” I asked.
Miriam glanced at the folder. “That's another problem.”
Samuel turned the sheet toward me.
OLIVIA HAYES.
The letters looked painfully familiar. Someone had signed my name beneath a declaration saying I'd watched Gabriel execute the agreement voluntarily.
“I never signed that.”
“We believe you,” Miriam said. “A handwriting expert can examine it. But the name gives them a way to turn you from witness into suspect.”
“Why choose me?”
“Because your employment records and signature were easy to obtain,” Gabriel answered. “And because someone thought you had no power to object.”
I remembered forms I'd filled out when I started: payroll authorization, key log, emergency contact sheet. I'd handed them over without a second thought. My name was worth less than the paper it was printed on to the people behind this.
“I want to make my own statement,” I said. “To the police and the court.”
Miriam nodded. “We'll arrange independent counsel first. You're allowed to protect your interests.”
That afternoon, from the backseat of Marco's SUV, I watched the courthouse rise through misty rain. Gabriel sat beside me, reading a statement he'd already revised three times. An escort vehicle followed because the threatening call had frightened his security team. I had refused to remain hidden at the estate. If my name was on that page, I wanted to see someone challenge it.
The hearing took less than an hour. A judge granted a temporary freeze on the property registration after reviewing Gabriel's travel records, the certificate, and preliminary evidence that a man impersonating him had signed in Chicago. A longer hearing was scheduled for Friday. The opposing company's attorneys objected from a video screen. They argued that Gabriel's business partner had authority to complete the transaction.
“What partner?” Gabriel whispered to Samuel.
Samuel waited until they were outside. “Vineyard redevelopment company. Called Lakefront Heritage Development. The filing identifies a managing consultant.”
“Adrian Costa?”
“No. Marcus DeLuca.”
Gabriel stopped walking.
I'd heard that name countless times. Marcus was his chief financial officer, a gray-haired family friend who had delivered Christmas gifts to the staff and attended the memorial service for Gabriel's father. He was practically a fixture of the mansion.
“Marcus has worked for me for eleven years,” Gabriel said.
“Then ask him why his name appears on a company organized six weeks ago,” Samuel replied.
The drive back was silent. Instead of the mansion, Marco took us to a small security office overlooking the river. Monitors showed hallways, parking lots, and interior rooms. One displayed footage from the conference room, still paused on the man with the scar.
Gabriel spoke first. “Adrian wasn't at the mansion when that footage was made. Marco confirmed he was in Milwaukee.”
“Then my memory is wrong?” I asked.
“Not necessarily,” Marco said. “The scar could be the same shape. The man on the tape could be a different person.”
I moved closer. “Can you show me the frame right before he sits?”
Marco rewound it. The impostor adjusted his jacket. As he did, the camera showed the back of his hand, where a faint patch of discoloration followed his thumb.
“That's not Adrian,” I said slowly. “When Adrian came in yesterday, his scar was here.” I pointed to the inside of my wrist. “That man's is higher.”
Gabriel exhaled. “So we're looking for someone made to look like me.”
Marco opened a guest list from a private event held two days before the signing. “A tailoring appointment was recorded that afternoon. Suit alterations requested by Marcus. The visiting contractor entered under the name Daniel Reed.”
A photograph appeared beside the visitor badge. The man had Gabriel's height and dark hair, but a narrow face and an uncertain smile.
“There,” I said. “The wrist.”
Marco zoomed in. A faded crescent marked Daniel's left wrist.
“We have a name,” Gabriel said. “That's a beginning.”
Marco contacted investigators and gave them the photo. Then a young security officer entered, carrying a small zippered pouch.
“Found this in the east-wing printer room. Someone tried to shove it into the trash compactor.”
Inside was a theatrical adhesive, a strip of dark hair, and two silicone pads shaped for cheekbones. I felt sick at the simple neatness of it. All it had taken to manufacture another Gabriel was a tailor, a makeup kit, and access to his home.
Samuel examined the evidence without touching it. “Bag it properly. Chain of custody matters.”
The officer left.
Gabriel stared down at the conference table. “My father used to say a locked gate won't protect you from someone carrying your keys.”
“Was that his way of telling you not to trust anyone?” I asked.
“No. His way of telling me to pay attention to who makes the locks.”
I studied him. For all his wealth, Gabriel seemed younger than thirty-five just then, stranded between anger and grief. I wondered how many doors he'd opened for Marcus without ever checking what lay behind them.
My phone buzzed again. This time it was Sophie calling. I answered at once.
“Olivia, there's a man outside Dad's building,” she whispered. “He says he's from an insurance review team. He keeps asking for you.”
“Don't let him in.”
“He has a badge.”
“Ask him to leave. Call the police if he doesn't.”
Sophie made a small, frightened sound. In the background, somebody knocked on wood three times.
Gabriel had gone still. He held out a notepad, and I wrote our street address with shaking fingers.
Marco was already on the phone.
“Police are heading there,” he said. “One of our people is close enough to watch from the sidewalk. No contact.”
I listened to Sophie breathe. Then came a man's muffled voice through the door: “Tell Olivia Hayes that Friday is closer than she thinks.”
Sophie began to cry.
I pressed the phone hard against my ear. “Stay inside. I'm here. I'm not hanging up.”
The man left before police arrived. But a small envelope lay under the welcome mat. An officer photographed it and opened it in the presence of my sister.
Inside was a copy of my father's hospital bill and a photograph of a vineyard in the October rain.
Across the back, written in block letters, were five words:
ASK GABRIEL ABOUT THE SPRING.
I repeated the message to him.
His face changed. Not the confusion I'd expected, but recognition.
“The spring,” he said quietly. “That's the one thing my father refused to sell.”
May you like
Outside the office window, the river moved beneath bridges and gray clouds. Until that moment, I'd believed someone wanted a parcel of expensive land.
Now it felt as though they wanted something buried beneath it.
