Pre-Approved Identity Theft

by Nellie K Neves

  Angry that I was weak.

  Angry that I couldn’t hold it together and repress it all.

  Angry that I was selfish enough to feel something so inconvenient for them.

  But not Declan.

  He’s worried.

  About me.

  Because he cares.

  About me.

  “You don’t have to shut me out.” His whispers tickle my skin. “I can help you.”

  Oh, how I want to believe him. But he doesn’t understand. How can he? My father’s reach and power are unsurpassed. Nothing can save me now.

  Instead of the truth, I give him me. I sink into his arms, bury my face in his neck, and let him anchor me, at least for a moment.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Declan lets me get away with my silence. That’s new to me as well. If my mother ever suspected that I was keeping something from her, she’d either send Jacoby to drag it out of me, or if she was in a more sinister mood, she’d send me to my shrink and despite a slew of ethics laws that say he can’t, he would share every dirty secret with her. Not that I ever had many.

  It wasn’t allowed.

  But Declan isn’t like them. He wants me to tell him what’s on my mind, but he’s waiting for me to want to tell him. He wants my trust, and he’s not going to demand it. Instead he’s waiting to earn it.

  This is all new to me.

  He walks me out at the end of our work day, but he has to pick up Rory from daycare, so I’m on my own for my walk home. One quick kiss and a single worried glance is all I have to tide me over until tomorrow. My legs are sore from my workout that morning. Tank was in a bad mood and we did ten minutes of burpee drills. If my bank account, or rather Indigo’s bank account, wasn’t so dismal I’d actually get a cab to escape the exhaustion screaming from my hamstrings.

  I stop at a light and wait for the walk signal. I’ve gotten used to the way people crowd in close. I still don’t like it, but it’s at least not as off putting as it was. I can catch little bits of conversations as I stand there. Someone is brokering a deal. Someone is arguing with his wife, but his wife is winning. And one other word catches my attention.

  Harper.

  I hear my name directly behind me and I won’t ever forget the voice. My mouth goes dry. My hands flash with sweat. It’s Jacoby and he’s close enough to grab me. I have maybe two seconds to formulate a plan. Not enough time for logic, just instinct.

  The walk sign flashes. I duck through a couple, making at least two other people stumble in my wake. Instead of crossing the clear street, I dash into traffic. That’s how desperate I am to stay away from them. I’m willing to take on an angry cab driver and his one-ton vehicle rather than deal with them.

  Tires squeal and the blur of yellow barely stops. I slam my hands against the hood to avoid collision. Horns are honking, people are screaming obscenities, but all I can do is run. I dash across the intersection, weaving between the stopped cars on the other side. The honking hasn’t stopped, which means Jacoby and Marquez are following me.

  I can’t turn back to check, even the slightest hesitation will give me up. Instead, I take a sharp right and run against the swell in foot traffic. I’ve never been cursed at so many times in my life, but I take the path through the direct center of them, hoping they will fill back in and refuse my followers.

  If I can get to my apartment, I’ll be safe. I know this. And it’s all I can hold onto. I nearly plow into another car as I run through traffic again. Vehicles are inching along, bumper to bumper never goes more than five miles an hour, but even then the string of honking horns gives away my location. I can’t slow down.

  I could run to Declan’s but how can I explain the men tailing me? Supposedly, I’m working to be on their ad campaign team. It’s not in my job description to evade the client in rush-hour traffic.

  No, to keep my new identity I have to lose them in the city somehow. I take a left as I find the sidewalk again and I sprint, grateful I’ve been working out, but cursing the heels on my feet that seem determined to kill me with every step. I spot an alleyway ahead. It connects to a side street that will take me to my apartment.

  My body carries too much momentum as I take the corner and I nearly slam into the opposite wall. It costs me three seconds to regain my footing and speed, and that’s all they need.

  Brick grates my back as Jacoby slams me backward with both palms. I cry out for help but his palm smashes over my mouth to silence the scream.

  Marquez has never been as fit. He’s at least five seconds behind his partner, winded as he clears the first shadows of the alley.

  “Ah, good,” he huffs, “ya caught her.”

  “No help from you,” Jacoby says to his partner, but he hasn’t stopped staring at me. “Uncanny, ain’t it?”

  The night air chills my wide eyes. I squirm, but I’m no match for him. Marquez steps closer as if to examine me and I can’t stop trembling.

  “Yeah, weird. You’d never guess it, would ya?”

  For the first time, Jacoby directs his words to me. “We’re gonna have a talk, princess. But that means you can’t be screamin’ your purdy head off. When I pull my hand away, you’re gonna stay quiet, a’right?”

  I nod my head to agree with him. His hand peels back and I shriek with all the air I have left. Light flashes behind my eyes, bright with pain. The ground rushes my face. I crumble to the asphalt. Their argument swirls with the ringing in my ears.

  Did he catch me upside the head? Everything is whirling and diving in my vision. I’m going to be sick. I’m going to vomit all over his Italian loafers. Jacoby ducks down to look me in the eye.

  “I need you to know something,” his voice is garbled in my ears. I’m not sure I’m even hearing him correctly. “If you’re protecting her. If you’re keeping your little twin hidden, we’ll find her. You’ll slip up, Miss Maxwell, and we’ll find her. We know Harper is in this city. It’s a matter of time.” I watch his face slip apart into two fuzzy images, then four, then back to one before he says, “You’re in the middle of something you’ll never understand. I’d cut your losses and throw her to the wolves if I were you.”

  There’s a scuffle of feet and some shouting. My stomach lurches. I barely keep the last of my lunch down. There’s a new voice. Someone must have heard me scream because they’re struggling with Jacoby. Though my vision sways and dips like it’s been set on a seesaw, I watch the cop shove Jacoby against the wall. Marquez throws the cop back. Jacoby sprints from the alley. A blur pursues. A second cop?

  Strong arms peel me from the dirty asphalt. He’s talking, but I can’t hang on.

  And it’s black, all black.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  I’m so tired of lying. I lie to the cops when I say I don’t know who those men were. I lie to the doctors when I tell them my name is Indigo Maxwell. I lie to the nurse when she asks if I’m that missing girl because I’m a dead ringer for her.

  I lie.

  I lie.

  I lie.

  I’m so tired of lying. But the hospital releases me with a minor concussion, and the cops admonish me to stay out of sketchy alleys.

  If only it were all that simple.

  If only the clock on my life didn’t have a countdown like a bomb that’s set to destroy everything. If only I had enough courage to face my past. If only my little twin, as Jacoby put it, had never found me, and I’d never tried on her life like the clothes in her closet. Then I might not want to fight so hard to keep it. But I do want it. I want all of this. I’m desperate to figure out some way to keep it. Even if I have to keep lying.

  Chapter 25

  Jacoby’s words don’t fully gel until the next morning. The news elates me. He doesn’t know that I’m me. They actually think I’m Indigo. In an odd way, it makes sense. They’ve known me since I was small. Yes, I look like me, like Harper, but I don’t act like her. Maybe it’s enough camouflage to keep me out of sight a little longer. But then what? Indigo is still in prison and Declan doe
sn’t know my name.

  Sir Walter Scott is playing on repeat in my aching skull. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive”. My grandmother, Maxine, used to whisper it to my mother when I was a child. When I was very young, she’d let me sleep over at her old plantation house. She’d brush my hair at night, fifty strokes each side, and without fail she’d always kiss my head and say, “Remember you are not cut from your mother’s cloth. You are a Sutton. Never forget that my little Max.”

  I miss Grandma Maxine. I miss her wisdom and the moments when I felt as though I belonged somewhere. But now, she’d be whispering that behind my back. Maybe I was cut from my mother’s cloth, the same kind of liar she’s always been.

  Around ten o’clock there’s a knock at my door. An envelope is jammed into the door. Large red letters that read “Fumigation Notice” clue me in on the contents.

  I drop my ice pack on the counter and tear open the seal. Sunday to Tuesday night I have to be somewhere else as they fumigate the entire building in response to termites found in a downstairs apartment. Apparently, this is the third notice. Indigo never thought to mention it to me. She opted out of the hotel stay downtown because my letter indicates that I have opted out and will need somewhere to stay.

  Because I need one more stressor in my life.

  There’s another knock at the door. Hoping it’s the super, and maybe I can get in on the hotel stay, I smash my ice pack to my head and rip open the door.

  It’s not the super. It’s a woman. Her hair is gray, well mostly. She was once a brunette. Dark hair streaks the underside of her shoulder length hair. She has high cheekbones, a sharp nose that looks as though it’s been under the knife at least once, and bright blue eyes. It’s the eyes that tell me what I need to know.

  She’s Indigo’s mother.

  “Indie, I think it’s about time we talk. I need to know what’s going on with you.” She pushes past my arm into the apartment and starts for the window. I’m left staring after her, my hand still holding the knob like an idiot. “I mean, you hung up on your own mother? I know we’ve had our rough patches, but I never thought you’d outright ignore me like this.”

  With the speed of chilled tar, I let the door fall shut. “I’m sorry,” I say, but it comes out confused.

  “You’re sorry?” Her eyebrows shoot up in the way that only a mother’s can. I’m trying to place her accent. Boston? Jersey? Indigo didn’t have an accent. In fact, I barely remembered her mother having one on the phone. “What? You think apologizing is going to fix your mother’s heart?”

  It’s east coast for sure. I can hear it now. My grandmother’s accent used to get thicker when she yelled at my father. “Tell her who she is. Teach her to be a Sutton instead of a knickknack pansy like that wife of yours,” she used to scream at him when I was barely ten.

  I never understood it.

  I knew I was a Sutton.

  My mother drilled it into my head, all the privilege, responsibility. and rights of a Sutton woman.

  Sit pretty, play nice, and please don’t cry.

  “Are you even listening?” Indigo’s mother yells at me. “And what’s that bag of ice on your head for? What’s happening with you?”

  She crosses the space between us in six steps and the ice pack is in her hand. I expect the gasp of shock. After all, the bruise on my head is ghastly, but I don’t expect her to back up three steps and smother her mouth in both hands.

  “You’re not my daughter,” she says. “You’re not Indigo.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, but I can’t look at her. “You’re going crazy.” I know I should call her mom, but I can’t. It won’t come out.

  “Who are you?” she demands. “Where’s my daughter?”

  I take a step back because she’s recovering her space. She’s closing in on me and I’m trapped.

  “I’m Indigo,” I say, but it’s weak because I’m not.

  My heart is racing like pounding hooves. She’s pulling apart my face piece by piece with her eyes. There’s no need to talk about it anymore because she’s going to get her answers on her own. Her eyes widen, bigger than the cartoons I used to sneak when I was little. She saw something in my face. It’s scaring her because she’s backing up, and then bolting for the door.

  I call, “Wait!” but she’s gone. The door slams behind her, leaving me there with a bag of half melted ice and more questions than answers.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  It’s odd not to have plans with Declan tonight. It’s a Saturday and we always take advantage of the weekends, but I reason with myself that there’s nothing wrong with a little alone time. After all, I shouldn’t be with him anyway.

  I make ice cream for dinner. Well, I scoop it into a bowl and flip on the TV. Two more credit card bills showed up for Indigo in the mail today and I have no clue how I’m going to pay those and still eat. If she doesn’t get out of prison soon, I’m going to have to move. More lies, more forgery, and that’s why I’m eating chocolate ice cream for dinner.

  The channels flip by as I scroll through them. Cable. There’s a cost I could cut. Hundreds of channels and nothing ever worth watching. I give the channel up button one more chance to produce quality before I turn the whole thing off, and then all I see is my face. It’s a picture of me on the San Francisco six o’clock news. I’m blonde in the photo, thank goodness, but they’ve captured my attention. I set the remote beside me and pick up my spoon.

  “Her father, Montgomery Sutton of Devil’s Harp Ale, is determined that she’s hidden somewhere in the city,” the newscaster says.

  The whole screen cuts away to a clip from my father sitting behind his large desk in his study. I’ve never been allowed to enter his office, but I’ve seen it through cracks in the door. Funny that he’ll let the world in, but not me.

  “As soon as we found the dress, we knew we found our daughter. We aren’t sure if she’s hiding there, or if someone has taken her captive, but all we want is for Harper to come home. Because of that, I am increasing the reward to fifty thousand dollars.”

  My spoon clatters into the bowl. He’s got to be kidding. I’m not worth it. Why are they so desperate?

  “Please,” I’m sure he means for his voice to be heartfelt and emotional, but it’s robotic at best, “if you’re keeping her captive, if you’ve seen her anywhere, call the toll-free number we’ve set up to bring Harper home.”

  The number flashes at the bottom of the screen 1-800-555-HARP. And now I feel as though I’m watching a pledge drive on public television.

  There must be someone else in the room with him because I hear a voice ask, “Montgomery, if you could say something to Harper right now, what would it be?”

  My father’s pale blue eyes turn to the camera and focus there. It’s as if he’s watching me, seeing me through the screen as he speaks.

  “Come home Harper. We’ll figure it out. Everything can be forgiven and set right. Come home.”

  The clip ends and the reporters are talking about how heartbreaking this whole situation is, but I’m left with confusion. Was that real? Or was it a trick for the cameras? Is he telling the truth? Can I really be forgiven? Could I really have a normal life if I went back? I want to believe him, but the voice inside me tells me it’s another lie meant to manipulate my actions. My only chance is running, never stop running.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  After a fitful night, it’s not great news when I wake up to a message from my super telling me that the spots for the hotel are booked and I really should have marked a space if I’d wanted one.

  I hate begging for anything, but in less than five hours my apartment complex will be filled with deadly gas, so pride isn’t something I can afford right now. With the way Indigo’s bank account is going, a hotel stay is also not something I can afford either.

  Declan picks up on the second ring. I tried to wait until nine o’clock so that he could sleep in, but time isn’t on my side and if he won’t help me
then I need to find a nice cardboard box before the rest of them are taken.

  “Hello beautiful,” he says, “I was thinking about you.”

  He’s perfect, and I’m nothing more than a perfect mess.

  “It was weird not seeing you last night,” I say.

  “Rory and I had a date. I think she was starting to get a little jealous.”

  I don’t know how to get to where I need to be and I’m floundering as we talk. Can he tell that I want something and that’s why I called?

  “What are you doing today?” I can hear Rory singing in the background while he waits for my answer.

  “Well,” nerves are making my voice tremble, “that’s kind of why I called. My place is getting fumigated and I missed the cut off to reserve a hotel room, and to be blunt, I’m kind of broke. They’re going to start spraying gas in a few hours and there’s nowhere for me to go, so…”

  I don’t know what to expect. If I came to my parents with this sort of situation, they’d make me pay for it for years. Poor planning. Poor financial responsibility. Poor life skills. Obviously, it’s a chance to make me feel horrible.

  But Declan isn’t like them.

  “When are you coming over?”

  He doesn’t even try to hide his excitement.

  No, he’s nothing like them.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  I pack what I need to make it through the next couple days. I’ve never lived with a guy before. My mind is racing as I walk to his place. Obviously, I’ll take the couch. Obviously, I’ll try to pull my weight, help with Rory, do the dishes, all the stuff a woman would normally do if she lived with him.

  Like a wife.

  I’m describing a wife and a mother in my head, and I shove it away because it’s not possible, not in the web I’ve weaved.

  My cell rings and I recognize the number immediately. It’s Jonathan Pinegree from the U.S. Embassy in Mexico.

  “Hello?”

  Two women are pointing at me from a local café. I don’t have to hear their words to know what they’re saying.

  “Yes, hello Miss Sutton. I wanted to give you an update on Miss Maxwell’s case.”