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Part 5: The Imposter

The next morning, while Garrison was in the shower, I went to Arthur.

The old man was staring blankly at the wall.

“Dad,” I whispered urgently, shaking his shoulder. “Arthur. Serafina. Widow’s Bluffs.”

At the mention of the cliff, Arthur’s body seized. His clouded eyes rolled back in terror. He began thrashing his hands, pointing a crooked finger toward the heavy winter coats hanging in the hallway closet.

“The coat… the pocket…” Arthur gasped, his mind fighting the dementia.

I ran to the closet. Deep inside the lining of Arthur’s old, moth-eaten wool trench coat, my fingers brushed against a cold, hard rectangle.

I pulled it out. It was an obsolete, thick burner phone.

I held the power button. Miraculously, the battery still had a sliver of life. The screen glowed to life, opening directly to a drafted, unsent text message.

The recipient was labeled “Dad.”

The message read: Dad, help me. He’s insane. The man with me isn’t Garrison.

I stared at the screen, the breath completely knocked out of my lungs.

The man with me isn’t Garrison.

I looked toward the bathroom where the shower was running. The man I had been sleeping next to for three years wasn’t Garrison Locke.

Then who the hell was he?

I didn’t wait to find out. I grabbed my keys, bolted out the front door, and ran to my car.

I didn’t make it out of the driveway.

A black SUV violently swerved across the road, slamming into the front bumper of my sedan, deploying my airbags in an explosion of white powder.

I gasped, dazed by the impact. The door of the SUV opened.

A man in a sharp suit stepped out. It was Silas Mercer, a known associate of Roland Graves. The man who sent the text warning me not to touch the desk.

Mercer walked up to my window, smashed the glass with a tactical baton, unlocked the door, and hauled me out by my hair.

“You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you, Brynn?” Mercer sneered, dragging me toward the SUV.

“Let me go!” I screamed, kicking and thrashing.

Suddenly, my front door burst open.

The man I knew as Garrison sprinted down the driveway. He wasn’t holding a briefcase. He was holding a heavy, steel crowbar.

“Let her go, Mercer!” my husband roared, his face contorted in pure, primal rage.

He didn’t hesitate. He swung the crowbar, shattering Mercer’s kneecap with a sickening crunch. Mercer screamed, dropping me to the pavement. My husband grabbed my arm, hauling me up, and dragged me back inside the house, locking the heavy deadbolt behind us.

He pushed me against the wall, breathing heavily, locking the windows.

“Who are you?!” I screamed, backing away from him in terror. “You aren’t Garrison!”

He froze. He looked at me, the facade completely dropping away, revealing a profoundly exhausted, terrified man.

“My name is Dane,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I grew up in a group home in Portland. Three years ago, Roland Graves found me. He told me I looked exactly like a man who had recently suffered a catastrophic mental breakdown. He offered me a million dollars to step into his life, take his name, and play the role of a grieving widower.”

“Why?” I demanded, tears streaming down my face.

“Because the real Garrison Locke went insane,” Dane confessed, rubbing his face in agony. “Garrison discovered that his wife, Serafina, was having an affair with Roland Graves. The betrayal broke his mind. He lured her to Widow’s Bluffs and pushed her off the cliff. Graves arrived too late to save her, but he realized the opportunity.”

Dane pointed to the bank ledger sticking out of my pocket.

“Serafina’s brother, Desmond, was wiring fifty million dollars a year from a massive embezzlement scheme to that account,” Dane explained rapidly. “If Desmond found out Graves had let his sister die, he would cut the funding. Graves needed Desmond to believe Serafina was still alive and well, managed by her husband. But the real Garrison was completely deranged, confessing to the murder to anyone who would listen.”

“So Graves locked the real Garrison in a psychiatric ward,” I realized, the horrifying puzzle locking into place. “And he hired you to impersonate him.”

“And he told me to find a woman who looked exactly like Serafina to marry,” Dane admitted, shame burning in his eyes. “You were supposed to be a prop. A decoy to show the world that Garrison and Serafina were still a happy couple, just in case Desmond’s people came snooping.”

“I am a pawn in a dead woman’s ransom plot,” I whispered, feeling physically sick.

“I was supposed to just use you,” Dane said, stepping toward me, his voice thick with genuine emotion. “But I fell in love with you, Brynn. That’s why Mercer is out there. Graves realized I was losing control. He sent Mercer to eliminate you.”

Before I could respond, a scream echoed from the living room.

We ran in. Mercer had limped around to the back patio and smashed the glass door. He was standing in the living room, holding a suppressed pistol, pointing it directly at Arthur.

“You betrayed the chief, Dane,” Mercer hissed, blood pouring down his leg. “Now, I’m burning this house down with all three of you inside.”

Mercer raised the gun toward me.

Dane didn’t hesitate. He lunged across the coffee table, tackling Mercer through the shattered glass door.

“Take Arthur and run!” Dane roared, wrestling for the gun.

I grabbed Arthur, who was whimpering in confusion, and dragged him out the front door, running into the rain-soaked street.

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