Chapter 13 - The Imposter in the Cell
The call disconnected with a hollow click.
Before I could scream, heavy footsteps pounded up the exterior porch stairs. I spun around, raising the brass poker, ready to swing at the skull of whoever stepped through the threshold.
"Clara! Drop it—it’s me!"
Julian lunged through the doorway, dropping a brown paper grocery bag. Oranges and fresh bakery bread rolled across the floorboards. In an instant, his arms were around my wrists, disarming me with effortless precision before hauling me against his chest. His body was tense, vibrating with panic.
"I saw the tire tracks by the main road," Julian breathed, his hands cupping my face, searching my eyes for injuries. "A black SUV. Clara, did someone come here? Did they touch you?"
I pushed against his chest, hard enough to knock him back half a step. The doubt that had begun as a tiny splinter on the church steps was now a festering wound.
"Who is Eleanor to you, Julian?" I demanded, pointing the flashlight toward the crumpled marriage certificate on the table. "And why is she calling my private number when she's supposed to be under twenty-four-hour surveillance at Bayview Penitentiary?"
Julian’s face went completely bloodless. He picked up the certificate, his gray eyes scanning the paper with terrifying speed.
"This is forged," he said, his voice dropping into a dangerous baritone. "Eleanor was my brother Christian’s widow. She was never my wife."
"Then explain that!" I shouted, aiming the beam of light straight down into the cellar. "Explain the case! Explain why she knows our unlisted cabin address! You told me we were safe here, Julian! You swore we were done with them!"
Julian didn't argue. He drew a compact nine-millimeter pistol from beneath his leather jacket—a weapon he had promised he would never carry again—and descended into the cellar without hesitation. I watched from the rim, my heart in my throat, as he crouched over the steel case.
Instead of trying to force it open, Julian tapped a hidden sequence onto his phone and held it to the digital latch. The case hissed open, pneumatic locks disengaging.
Julian went rigid.
"What is it?" I whispered.
Julian reached in and pulled out a stack of medical surveillance dossiers. Attached to the top file was an official warden’s report dated yesterday from Bayview Penitentiary.
"Julian... answer me," I pleaded.
He climbed back up the ladder, his face carved from cold granite. He handed me the top photograph from the dossier.
The picture showed a woman lying in a white hospital cot inside Cell 402, hooked up to an IV drip, her face half-bandaged. But under the clinical lighting, the cheekbones were too wide, the hairline slightly uneven.
"Three days ago," Julian said softly, his voice trembling with a rage he could barely contain, "the woman in that cell attempted suicide. When the medical team ran genetic verification before the blood transfusion... the DNA didn't match Eleanor Vance."
I stared at him, terror paralyzing my throat.
"Then who has been sitting in that maximum-security cell for the past month?" I asked.
May you like
Julian looked toward the fog-drenched road outside. "A decoy. Eleanor never spent a single night in that prison. And if she’s here, it means Christian’s empire never died with him."
***
