"Clause Seven," I read aloud, my voice echoing off the foyer walls.
Jonah stopped gathering his spilled papers. He stayed on his knees, staring at the floorboards.
"Della, give that to me," Marilyn demanded, stepping forward with an outstretched hand.
I held the thick parchment higher, keeping it just out of her reach. "The contractor must not disclose the employment relationship to the subject."
A sharp, barking laugh tore from my throat. It bounced around the entryway, loud and completely devoid of humor.
Marilyn flinched. "Stop laughing. It is not funny."
"It is hilarious, Mom. You hired a boyfriend."
During my junior year of college, Vivienne stole the debate club presidency. She circulated emails claiming I plagiarized my final thesis. I stood in the dean's office, clutching my original handwritten drafts, and bit the inside of my cheek until copper filled my mouth. I kept my silence. I endured the humiliation to keep the peace.
I was not keeping the peace today.
I marched past Marilyn and slapped the contract flat onto the oak dining table, right next to the empty porcelain plate.
"How much does a fake smile cost these days?" I asked, looking down at Jonah. "Do you charge by the hour, or is it a flat rate for the turkey sandwich?"
Jonah pushed himself up from the floor, brushing dust off his suit pants. He refused to meet my eyes. "Ms. Whitmore, I should leave. This violates the terms of the arrangement."
"Stay right there," Marilyn snapped at him. She turned her glare on me, her face pale and tight. "I did this for you, Della. You need someone to take care of you."
"I need you to stop treating me like a patient."
"You set a place for a dead man every morning!" She pointed a trembling finger at the table, her voice rising to a shrill pitch. "You chased a stranger down the hallway. You talk to empty chairs. You are sick!"
"I am waiting for my fiancé."
"Sam is at the bottom of the ocean!"
I grabbed the heavy silver pocket watch off the table. The metal felt cold against my palm. "He is delayed."
"Della, please listen to reason," Jonah started, taking a cautious step toward the dining room. He raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Your mother just wants you to move on. We can still sit down. We can just talk."
"Do not speak to me," I told him, gripping the watch tight. "You are an employee. You are dismissed."
"Jonah, do not leave," Marilyn pleaded, grabbing his suit sleeve. "I will double your rate for today. Just help me calm her down."
"He cannot calm me down, Mom. He does not even know how I take my tea." I turned my back on both of them and walked toward the front door.
"Where are you going?" Marilyn yelled, her slippers slapping against the floor as she chased me.
"To find someone who tells the truth."
I gripped the brass knob, twisted the deadbolt, and yanked the door open.
"Della, get back inside!" Marilyn grabbed my elbow, her fingernails digging into my skin.
I yanked my arm away. "Do not touch me."
"He is a professional! He can help you transition back to normal life."
"Normal life does not involve paying men to pretend to love me." I backed away from her, pointing at our open apartment door. "Go back inside and pay your actor. Leave me alone."
Marilyn stood in the corridor, her face crumbling. "You are destroying yourself."
"I am surviving. You are the one putting on a play."
I turned and marched down the eleventh-floor corridor. The air smelled of lemon wax and dust. I did not hesitate. I crossed the hallway and stopped in front of apartment 11B.
The man from three days ago lived here. He told me he did not know me. He pushed me away. He did not lie. He was the only real thing in this entire building.
I raised my fist and pounded on the heavy wood.
"Hey!" I shouted, hitting the door again. "Open up!"
Silence answered from the other side.
I knocked harder, my knuckles stinging from the impact. "I know you are in there. Open the door!"
The deadbolt clicked.
The door swung inward, revealing the tall, broad-shouldered man in a faded gray t-shirt and dark jeans. His dark eyes narrowed as he looked down at me.
"Are you going to throw coffee on me again?" he asked, his rough baritone voice scraping against the quiet.
"No." I held up my empty hands, keeping the silver pocket watch clutched tightly in my left fist. "I need to talk to you."
He leaned against the doorframe, blocking my view of his apartment. "We have nothing to talk about. I already told your mother I would not press charges."
"I do not care about charges. I care about your face."
He raised an eyebrow. "My face."
"You look exactly like him."
"I do not know who 'him' is, lady. My name is Ryan Vance. I just moved here."
"My name is Della." I stepped closer, forcing him to stand his ground. "And my family is paying actors to pretend to be my boyfriend. They think I am crazy. They think Sam is dead."
Ryan rubbed the back of his neck, his jaw tightening. "This sounds like a personal problem, Della. I am just trying to unpack my boxes."
"You did not lie to me in the hallway."
"I told you to back off."
"Exactly. You were honest." I pointed the pocket watch at his chest. "I need you to tell me the truth right now. Do you have a brother? A twin? A cousin who works on maritime surveying ships?"
"I am an only child." He crossed his arms over his broad chest. "And I work in logistics. No boats. No surveying."
I stared at the slope of his cheekbone. The hard angle of his jaw. It was a perfect match. The resemblance was too precise to be a coincidence.
"You are lying."
"I just met you three days ago," Ryan said, his tone dropping into a hard, flat line. "I have no reason to lie to you, and I have no reason to help you. Go back to your apartment."
"Sam disappeared three years ago. The Coast Guard called off the search, but they never found a body." I pressed forward, ignoring his warning. "You show up right next door, looking like his carbon copy. That is not random."
"It is a big city. People look alike."
"Not this much."
"Look, I am sorry about your fiancé," Ryan said, his voice devoid of actual sympathy. "But I am not him, and I do not know him. Have a good afternoon."
He reached for the edge of the door, ready to close it.
"Wait." I wedged my sneaker into the gap, stopping the wood from shutting.
Ryan sighed, a harsh sound of irritation. "Move your foot, Della."
"Let me look inside."
"Absolutely not."
"Just one look." I pushed against the door with my shoulder. "If you are telling the truth, you have nothing to hide."
"Are you out of your mind?" He shoved back, easily overpowering me.
The door swung wider for a fraction of a second as he shifted his weight.
My eyes darted past his shoulder, scanning the dim interior of his living room.
Cardboard boxes formed uneven towers against the sofa. A laptop sat open on a folding table.
And the far wall.
Dozens of glossy photographs hung pinned to the drywall, connected by thin strands of red string. They were aerial shots. Deep blue ocean water. Green islands. Jagged coastlines.
Right in the center of the chaotic web hung an eight-by-ten print.
It showed a man standing on a wooden dock, facing away from the camera. The wind whipped his dark hair. The angle caught the side of his face.
The exact slope of the cheekbone. The hard angle of the jaw.
It was Sam's profile.
And it was definitely not Ryan Vance.
