Chapter 2 - THE FINGERPRINT THAT SHOULD NOT EXIST
I stared at the smart-lock application until the numbers blurred together.
Forty-seven entries.
Forty-seven times someone had entered my apartment using a fingerprint that did not belong to either me or the husband I thought I knew.
My first instinct was to call the police.
My second was to wake Christopher.
I did neither.
Something inside me finally understood that whatever was happening, I could not let the man sleeping in the next room know that I had discovered it.
I turned the phone screen off.
Then I heard the shower stop.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I slipped the phone into my pocket and walked toward the kitchen as casually as I could.
A minute later, Christopher appeared in the doorway.
His hair was wet.
He wore a white shirt and dark trousers.
He looked completely normal.
That was what terrified me most.
“Penelope?”
I turned.
“Yeah?”
“You look pale.”
“I didn't sleep.”
He walked toward me.
I forced myself not to move away.
“You should rest today.”
“I will.”
He reached for my face.
His fingers touched my cheek.
I nearly flinched.
He noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He smiled.
“You're still shaken by last night.”
“Anyone would be.”
He nodded.
Then he kissed my forehead.
“I'm going to work.”
I watched him pick up his keys.
The keys were in his right hand.
I noticed.
Then he switched them to his left when he opened the door.
My stomach tightened.
Maybe I was becoming paranoid.
Maybe grief, fear, and exhaustion were turning ordinary movements into evidence.
But when he stepped into the hallway, he suddenly stopped.
He looked back.
“You're not going anywhere today, right?”
I smiled.
“No.”
“Good.”
The door closed.
I waited.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Then I rushed to the window.
His car pulled away from the building.
I grabbed my phone and opened the smart-lock application again.
The unknown fingerprint had unlocked the apartment forty-seven times.
I took screenshots of every entry.
Then I opened the security-camera application.
Our building had cameras in the lobby and parking garage.
I selected the previous night.
The footage loaded.
At 10:18 p.m., Christopher's truck left the garage.
At 10:21 p.m., the elevator camera showed Christopher walking toward our apartment.
I stopped breathing.
There was only one Christopher.
The same man.
Same clothes.
Same face.
But the timestamp was three minutes after his truck had already left.
I rewound it.
The truck left at 10:18.
Christopher appeared in the elevator at 10:21.
Impossible.
Unless someone had driven the truck.
Or unless the man in the elevator wasn't Christopher.
I zoomed in.
His face looked right.
His build looked right.
His clothes looked right.
But something was different.
The way he walked.
Christopher always dragged his right foot slightly after long days at work.
This man didn't.
I replayed it.
No limp.
No hesitation.
Perfectly balanced.
I opened an old video on my phone.
Our anniversary.
Christopher walking toward me across a restaurant patio.
There it was.
The slight drag.
Barely noticeable.
But unmistakable once I knew to look.
I returned to the security footage.
The man in the elevator didn't have it.
My hands went cold.
I called my sister, Olivia.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Penny?”
“I need you to do something.”
“What happened?”
“Don't ask me questions yet.”
Her voice changed.
“Are you safe?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I need you to come over.”
“I'm leaving now.”
“Olivia.”
“Yes?”
“Don't come straight to the apartment.”
Silence.
“Why?”
“Meet me at the coffee shop on Jefferson.”
She understood immediately that something was seriously wrong.
“Okay.”
I grabbed my purse.
Before leaving, I looked toward the bedroom.
The bed was still unmade.
His side was slightly depressed from where he had slept.
I walked over.
Then I noticed something.
On the nightstand was a glass.
The glass Christopher had used to give me my medication.
I picked it up.
There was a faint white residue at the bottom.
My stomach turned.
I poured the remaining liquid into a small plastic container.
Then I took the glass with me.
At the coffee shop, Olivia was already waiting.
She stood when she saw me.
“Penny.”
I sat down.
“You're going to think I'm crazy.”
“Try me.”
I handed her my phone.
She looked at the smart-lock history.
Her eyebrows tightened.
“What is this?”
“I don't know.”
Then I showed her the security footage.
She watched it twice.
“That's Christopher.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you acting like he isn't?”
“Because he wasn't home when this was recorded.”
Olivia stared at me.
“What?”
I explained everything.
The accident.
The dead man.
The wallet.
The phone.
The ring.
The appendectomy scar.
Then the fingerprint.
Olivia's face became pale.
“Are you saying your husband has a double?”
“I don't know.”
“Then what are you saying?”
I leaned closer.
“I think someone has been pretending to be my husband.”
She looked at me for several seconds.
Then quietly asked:
“Who?”
I shook my head.
“That’s what I need to find out.”
Olivia took the plastic container from my purse.
“What is this?”
“The glass from last night.”
She frowned.
“Did you drink from it?”
“No.”
“Then we get it tested.”
“Where?”
“I know someone.”
She called a friend who worked in a private laboratory.
Two hours later, we had an answer.
The residue contained zolpidem.
A powerful sleeping medication.
Olivia stared at me.
“Did Christopher give this to you?”
“Yes.”
“How much do you normally take?”
“One tablet.”
“And how much was in the glass?”
“Enough to keep someone heavily sedated.”
Neither of us spoke.
My hands began shaking.
He hadn't been trying to help me sleep.
He had been trying to make sure I stayed asleep.
That evening, I returned home alone.
Christopher wasn't there.
I checked the bedroom.
The bathroom.
The kitchen.
Nothing.
Then I heard the front door unlock.
I froze.
The handle moved.
The door opened.
Christopher walked inside.
He smiled.
“Hey.”
I forced myself to smile back.
“Hey.”
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
He kissed me.
I almost pulled away.
Then I noticed his hand.
A thin silver scar crossed his palm.
Christopher didn't have that scar.
I knew because I had cleaned his hands after he cut himself cooking three years earlier.
I stared at it.
He noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He smiled.
“You're acting strange.”
“So are you.”
The words slipped out.
His expression changed.
“What does that mean?”
I looked directly into his eyes.
“I mean last night was strange.”
He stared at me.
Then smiled.
“Still thinking about that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I took a breath.
“Because a man died with your identity.”
His face remained calm.
Too calm.
“I know.”
“And someone entered our apartment forty-seven times using an unknown fingerprint.”
He stopped smiling.
For the first time, I saw something real in his eyes.
Fear.
Not concern.
Fear.
Then it disappeared.
“Where did you get that information?”
I knew immediately.
I had him.
“You're not Christopher.”
He said nothing.
I stepped backward.
“Who are you?”
He stared at me.
Then slowly locked the front door.
My heart stopped.
“Penelope,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“You should never have looked.”
I reached for my phone.
He moved faster.
He grabbed my wrist.
I screamed.
He covered my mouth.
Then someone pounded on the apartment door.
“PENNY!”
Olivia.
The man holding me froze.
I bit his hand.
He cursed and released me.
I ran.
Olivia burst through the door with two police officers behind her.
The man turned.
For one second, he looked exactly like Christopher.
Then one officer shouted:
“Hands where we can see them!”
He raised his hands.
“I'm Christopher Bennett.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
My voice shook.
“That isn't my husband.”
The officer looked between us.
“Ma'am, are you certain?”
I nodded.
Then the man smiled.
Not Christopher's smile.
Something colder.
Something unfamiliar.
And he said six words that made my blood turn to ice.
“Ask her what happened eight years ago.”
I stared at him.
May you like
Because eight years ago was the one year of my life I had never told Christopher about.
And somehow, this stranger knew.
