PART 4 — THE MAN WHO WORE MY FACE

We arrived at St. Agnes in seven minutes.

It should have taken eighteen.

My father’s driver drove like a man who had been promised either wealth or absolution. Police cruisers trailed behind us without sirens, with black SUVs following after them. Richard sat next to me, talking quickly into two phones. Detective Harris rode up front, jaw clenched, his gun already drawn but held low.

I did not pray.

I had never been taught how.

But when the chapel came into view through the mist—gray stone, a narrow steeple, an old cemetery sloping down toward the water—I heard Hannah breathing through my phone, and I made promises to anything that might be listening.

Take the money. Take the company. Take my name. Just leave them alive.

“Hannah,” I whispered. “Are you still there?”

There was no answer.

Only silence.

Then Noah began to cry.

The sound tore through me.

The SUVs stopped abruptly.

Detective Harris turned around. “You stay in the vehicle.”

I opened the door anyway.

Richard caught my coat. “Daniel.”

I looked at him.

Whatever he saw in my face made him release me.

The chapel doors were standing half open.

Inside, the sanctuary smelled of dust, candle wax, and aged wood. Morning light spilled through the stained glass in fractured colors, red and blue spreading across the stone floor like wounds. The pews were empty. Candles flickered near the altar.

“Hannah!” I called.

A cry came from the right side.

The sacristy.

Detective Lane moved first, weapon raised. Harris followed. I was behind them before anyone could hold me back.

The sacristy door was open.

Hannah stood inside, clutching Noah to her chest. Her hair had come loose, her face was pale, and one cheek was marked with tears. She wore jeans, a black sweater, and the same gray wool coat I had given her three Christmases ago.

For one suspended second, she looked at me not like a husband, not like an enemy, not like the man who had shattered her heart.

She looked at me like Noah’s father.

“Daniel,” she breathed.

I stepped toward her.

Then someone behind me said, “Careful.”

I turned.

He was standing near the altar, holding Olivia Bennett in front of him with one arm locked around her throat and a small black pistol pressed beneath her jaw.

The sight froze everyone inside the chapel.

He wore my navy suit.

My white shirt.

My watch.

My haircut.

And almost my face.

Not exactly identical at close range. The eyes were different. Mine were my mother’s, gray with blue around the edges. His were darker, colder, set beneath brows that gave him a permanent look of private amusement. But the jaw, the height, the mouth, the way he tilted his head—

He was the answer to a question my  family had buried alive.

Ethan Cole smiled.

“Hello, brother.”

My father stepped in behind me and stopped completely.

Ethan’s smile widened.

“Hello, Father.”

Charles Whitman made a sound I had never heard from him before.

Not grief.

Not fear.

Recognition.

“No,” he whispered.

Ethan laughed softly. “That’s what everyone says at first.”

Olivia whimpered. Her wrists were bound. Blood marked one corner of her mouth. When her eyes found mine, they were filled with terror and accusation.

“Daniel,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry.”

Ethan pressed the gun harder. “She says that a lot now.”

Detective Harris lifted his weapon. “Ethan Cole, lower the gun.”

“Which name are we using?” Ethan asked. “Cole? Whitman? Daniel? The spare? The mistake?”

Hannah held Noah more tightly.

My son had stopped crying. His tiny face was red and crumpled against her shoulder.

“Hannah,” I said softly. “Come to me.”

She did not move.

I deserved that.

Ethan noticed.

“Oh, that’s delicious,” he said. “Even now, she’s not sure which monster to trust.”

“Let Olivia go,” I said.

He looked at me with open pleasure.

“You ruined her, you know. Not me. You taught her every rule. Smile at the right men. Take the gifts. Keep the receipts hidden. Pretend powerful people don’t bleed on you when they fall.”

Olivia shut her eyes.

Ethan leaned closer to her ear. “But she was useful. She got me into your hotels. Your systems. Your little calendar lies.”

“You used her,” I said.

“She used you first.”

The truth struck Olivia harder than the gun did. She sagged, and Ethan held her upright like a doll.

My father stepped forward.

“Ethan.”