PART 3: Two Husbands
I stared at the screen. Every message was still there: Do not react. Prove it. Storage cage 14. The thumb on the glass of my own phone looked impossibly large, and in my head I was racing through every excuse I could think of. “Somebody must have hacked it,” I said at last. “It happens. They spoof the number so it looks like it’s coming from someone you trust.” My voice sounded thin, even to me. Owen nodded slowly, as though I had said something very wise.
He set his own phone beside mine on the marble counter. On his screen glowed the same thread, mirrored, every word of it. “Cloned,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s what I would say, too, if I were you. And if someone cloned my number to send you messages, it means somebody out there wants you frightened of me.” He tilted his head, and the Daniel mask slipped a little. “Say it, Claire. Say who you think has been texting you.”
I decided to bluff. “I don’t know,” I said, and I forced a shaky laugh. “It’s creepy. We should call the police right now. Both of us, together, and let them sort it out.” I held my breath. A real husband would have agreed immediately. Owen only smiled wider. “I would love that,” he said. “Unfortunately, I think the police are the last people you want involved this weekend.” He slid my phone into his back pocket and gave it a gentle pat.
The change in him came all at once, the way a stage light snaps off. His shoulders loosened, his voice dropped half an octave, and the soft Daniel cadence drained from every word. “God, I’m tired,” he said, rolling his neck. “Three weeks of oatmeal and Fleetwood Mac. Do you know how many hours of video I watched to learn how he laughs? And you still caught me on a Saturday morning, over a scar. Victor swore nobody would ever notice.”
“Who are you?” I whispered, though I already knew. He bowed slightly, a ridiculous theatrical little bow. “Owen Brandt. Nice to meet you properly, Mrs. Whitman. I’d shake your hand, but I think we’re past that.” My stomach turned over. The man who had slept beside me for three weeks, who had kissed my forehead and squeezed my hand during a thunderstorm, was a stranger who had been rehearsing me like a script.
“You were supposed to be easier,” he went on, walking slowly around the island. “Victor said Daniel had told him you trusted everything. A husband says something sweet, and you believe it. That was the whole plan.” He sounded almost disappointed. I backed up until my shoulder blades touched the wall beside the refrigerator, and my fingertips brushed the cool plastic panel of the building intercom, the old one Daniel had always meant to replace.
“Monday morning,” Owen said, holding up a finger, “we are going to take a little drive to a lawyer’s office. You will sign some papers, and I will sign some papers, and then everyone gets to go home. You get your life back. I get paid.” He shrugged. “Nobody needs to be hurt.” I swallowed. “And Daniel?” I asked, as steadily as I could. His smile flickered. “Daniel is a paperwork problem,” he said. “Victor is handling it.”
He reached across the island and slid my phone back toward me, slow and casual, as if returning a borrowed pen. “Call whoever you want,” he said. “Tell your sister it was a misunderstanding. Tell her you and your loving husband are fine. Then we’ll have pancakes.” I understood that he wanted me to make the call on speaker, in front of him, reading from his script. The phone lay on the marble like a loaded trap, and I did not touch it.
While he was watching my face, I pressed my thumb hard against the intercom button behind my back. It was the lobby line, the one that rang straight to Gus’s desk. Daniel and I had joked for years that nobody ever used it. A faint click answered under my thumb, and I held the button down until my muscle ached. If Gus picked up, he would hear everything from here on. If he did not, I had just wasted my last good chance.
I made my voice crack, and I did not have to try very hard. “How did Victor even find you?” I asked. “Why would anyone do this?” Owen laughed and leaned against the counter, plainly enjoying himself. “A casting call in Midtown. Look-alike wanted, cash only, no questions. He paid for my teeth, you know. Whitening. And a haircut that cost more than my rent. It was the best audition of my life.” He sounded proud, and that frightened me more than any threat.
“You let him lock a man in a crate,” I said. Something flickered across his face, and for half a second he looked young and cornered. “I didn’t know about the crate,” he said. “I thought Daniel was just… tucked away somewhere. Out of the picture.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been getting ugly. Victor is getting nervous. He keeps saying Monday will fix everything.” He stopped, and I realized he was trying to convince himself.
His phone buzzed on the marble, and both of us flinched. He picked it up and read the message, and I watched the color drain from his face like water from a basin. He turned the screen toward me without meaning to. It was from Victor. Cage 14 is empty. Crate’s open. He’s out of the building. Hold her. I’m coming up.
Owen’s head snapped up. “Where is he?” he said, and the actor was gone. His hand clamped around my wrist so hard I gasped. “Where’s your husband, Claire?” I pulled and twisted, and my sneaker skidded across the tile, and I screamed the only thing I could think of. “Gus! Gus, help!” Owen slammed his palm over my mouth, dragged me away from the wall, and in that moment I heard the front door lock chime, soft and polite and terrible.
The door swung open, and Victor Kane stepped into my kitchen. His silver hair was slicked back, his navy suit was perfectly pressed, and in his right hand a black pistol hung easily at his side, as though it were nothing more than an umbrella. He looked at me with a disappointed, almost fatherly sadness, the same look he had worn at my wedding. “Hello, Claire,” he said quietly. “I believe you’ve misplaced my partner.”
