Chapter 3 - THE IMPOSTOR
FB Hook: "The police told me my husband died 7 years ago... then the chief leaned in and whispered: 'So who is standing on your front porch right now?'"I dropped the phone onto the floorboard as if it had turned into a venomous snake.
"Mommy?" Ethan squeaked from the back. "Who was that?"
"Nobody, baby. Nobody," I gasped, throwing the car into drive and peeling out of the gas station parking lot. I didn't wait for the police cruiser the dispatcher promised. How could I? I didn't know who to trust. If "Ben" knew I had looked in the glove box, it meant he had a tracker on the car.
He was watching me right now.
I drove straight to the central police precinct in the heart of the city, running two red lights in the process, ignoring the blaring horns of anger behind me. I slammed the SUV into a parking spot right in front of the precinct doors, unbuckled Ethan, grabbed the black leather pouch, and ran inside.
"I need help!" I screamed as I burst through the glass doors into the lobby. "Please! I need the highest-ranking officer here right now!"
Ten minutes later, I was sitting in a dimly lit interrogation room with Detective Marcus Vance—a tall, weary-looking man with silvering hair and a sharp, calculating gaze. Ethan was sitting in the corner of the room, distracted by a box of crayons and a coloring book provided by a kindly female officer.
On the metal table between Detective Vance and me lay the contents of the leather pouch: the three fake passports, the yellowed hospital band, and my phone.
"Mrs. Carter—or Ms. Julia," Detective Vance began, flipping through the fake passports with a heavy frown. "We sent two cruisers to 414 Elm Street five minutes after your call. The house was empty. The cellar was cleared out. Whoever was down there is gone. No sign of the elderly woman. No sign of the man."
"He took her!" I cried, leaning over the table. "He went back and grabbed her! You have to find them! That man isn't my husband! Look at the hospital band!"
Detective Vance picked up the plastic wristband with a pair of tweezers and sealed it in an evidence bag. He let out a long, slow sigh and looked at me with deep sympathy.
"I ran the records on the wristband, Julia," Vance said quietly. "It's real."
A tear slipped down my cheek. "What?"
"Benjamin Carter—the real Benjamin Carter—died in a hit-and-run accident seven years ago in County General Hospital. The body was identified by his mother, Helen Carter. The case was closed."
"Then who... who is the man I married?" I whispered, my voice cracking. "We've been married for four years! We have a home! We have a mortgage! He has a social security number! He pays taxes!"
"He stole a dead man's identity," Vance explained, leaning forward. "It happens more often than you think, especially with isolated families. If a person dies and the family doesn't report it properly to the state, an identity can be hijacked. But what I don't understand is why Helen Carter would go along with it."
"She didn't go along with it!" I shot back. "She was chained up in a cellar! She was living like an animal! He kept her there so she couldn't tell anyone that her real son was dead!"
Before Vance could respond, his desk phone chimed. He picked it up, listened for a few seconds, his face hardening into stone.
"Understood," he said, hanging up. He looked up at me, his eyes dark.
"What is it?" I asked, my heart dropping.
"Our traffic units just spotted your husband's blue pickup truck," Vance said, standing up and pulling his sidearm from his holster to check the magazine. "It's parked outside your house on Oak Street."
My blood ran cold. "My house? But Ethan and I aren't there!"
"He doesn't know that," Vance said sternly. "Or maybe he does, and he's going back to clear out his tracks. Julia, I want you and Ethan to stay right here in this precinct. You are safe here. I am taking a SWAT unit to your residence right now."
"No, please, detective—"
"Stay here!" Vance commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Officer Martinez will guard the door. Do not leave this building."
He slammed the door behind him.
The next two hours were an excruciating eternity. I sat in that cold, sterile room, watching the hands on the wall clock tick by with agonizing slowness. Ethan eventually fell asleep on the small vinyl couch, clutching his box of crayons.
Every time a footsteps echoed in the hallway, I jumped. Every time a door slammed, my skin crawled.
At 6:45 PM, the door to the interrogation room opened.
It wasn't Detective Vance.
It was a young officer I hadn't seen before. He had a pale face and looked visibly shaken.
"Ms. Julia?" the officer said softly.
"Is it over?" I stood up immediately, stepping away from Ethan. "Did you catch him? Is Helen safe?"
"Detective Vance needs you to come to the house," the young officer said, avoiding my eyes. "There... there's been an incident. They found something in the master bedroom."
My stomach lurked. "What did they find?"
"I can't tell you, ma'am. The Detective said you need to see it yourself. We have a secure transport ready for you and your son."
I looked at Ethan sleeping peacefully. A bad feeling—a deep, visceral warning bell—ran through my gut.
"Is Detective Vance still at my house?" I asked, taking a subtle step back toward the table where my purse lay.
"Yes, ma'am. He's waiting for you."
"Can I call him first?" I asked, reaching for my phone.
The young officer's posture changed in a fraction of a second. The hesitant, nervous look vanished from his face, replaced by a cold, sharp precision. He reached toward his belt.
"I'm afraid that won't be necessary, Julia," the officer said smoothly.
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And that's when I noticed it.
On his wrist, beneath the sleeve of his police uniform, was a distinct, fresh mark: a deep, angry red burn in the shape of a circular hot plate heating coil.
