Chapter 3 - THE GHOST IN THE PHOTOGRAPHJulian noticed the sudden shift in the air. He turned around, following Emma’s petrified gaze back toward his study, and then to Emma herself.
“Emma?” Julian’s voice dropped to a dangerous, low register. He stepped out from the hallway, blocking her view of the portrait. “Is something wrong?”
Emma scrambled backward, grabbing Nora instinctively and pulling the little girl tight against her chest. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. The lie she had lived for three years—the secret identity, the forged documents, the midnight escape from a life she had to leave behind—was about to collapse like a house of cards.
“Nothing, Mr. Mercer,” Emma stammered, her voice shaking violently. “I just… I slipped. The floor is wet. We need to go. Nora, say goodbye to Mr. Julian.”
“Wait,” Julian commanded, his eyes narrowing.
He took two deliberate steps toward her. Up close, he noticed the way Emma’s hands trembled, the way she shielded Nora’s face as if hiding her from a monster. But more than that, in the glaring morning light, without the practical bun and the heavy cleaning uniform, Julian saw something he had been too blind to notice before.
The curve of Emma’s jaw. The exact shade of her hazel eyes. The way a single lock of light brown hair fell across her forehead.
It was a ghost standing right in front of him.
“Where have I seen you before?” Julian whispered, the question tearing its way out of his throat.
“You haven’t,” Emma lied, her voice cracking. She turned on her heel, scooping up Nora, and practically sprinted down the service corridor toward the staff quarters, slamming the heavy wooden door behind her.
Julian stood alone in the hallway, his blood running cold. He slowly turned back toward his study, walked inside, and stared up at the portrait of Olivia.
Then, driven by a sudden, frantic paranoia, he walked over to the wall safe behind the painting. He punched in the six-digit code—Olivia’s birthday. The heavy steel door clicked open.
He reached inside and pulled out the confidential investigation file compiled by his private detectives two years ago, right after the accident. He flipped past the police reports, past the coroner’s notes, and stopped at page fourteen.
It was a background check on the primary witness of the bridge crash—a woman who had miraculously survived, a woman who had checked into a New Haven hospital under an alias before disappearing into thin air the night before the funeral.
The name on the intake form was Emma Vance.
Julian looked down at the photograph attached to the document. It was a younger Emma, smiling softly, with light brown hair and tired hazel eyes.
Below it was her maiden name, and her married name after wedding a construction worker who died in a staged accident.
May you like
Emma Reed.
Julian slammed the safe shut, the sound echoing through the empty mansion. Olivia hadn't died alone in that car. Or worse... someone had switched places.
