It’s a third grave.
Chapter Nineteen
The grave is smaller thanPete’s and Jane’s and made of granite rather than marble—gray, instead of an off-white color. The lettering is more worn—which makes sense.
Brian James Davis
Born January 2, 1986
Died January 5, 1986
I stare at the photo for too long, the gravesite of Pete and Jane’s infant son, who died three days after his birth. Who never got to marry or have children or do much of anything.
The infant son whose identity Brian, my husband, must have stolen. I’ll bet anything that if I track down baby Brian’s Social Security number, it is nowmyBrian’s Social Security number. He stole his birth date, his existence. Chances are, all paperwork related to baby Brian has disappeared too. This grave marker is likely the only proof he ever existed. And with his parents gone, there is no one to object to his identity being stolen.
I grasp my cart like it’s a lifeline, reality taking hold.
Brian Davis is a stolen identity.
I blink at the screen and hear myself murmur, “Who the fuck did I marry?”
And for that matter, who were the parents I met? Paid actors?
“Watch your language, young lady.” I look up to see none other than Karen’s Chad glaring at me. “My wife told me you were rude to her.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” I mutter. I don’t have time for this—literally, I realize—I’ve been here for an hour, and it’s at least a thirty-minute drive to grab Evie at school, then scoop up Eliza from Graham’s.
“Miss, you seem angry. Have you considered that Jesus Christ is your savior, that his name should not be taken in vain? Maybe if you embraced him, you’d feel better and—” Chad is earnest now, his disapproval and anger melting away as he senses he might recruit me.
“I don’t think your god likes me very much.” I offer a bland smile, then hurry toward the checkout, the vision of that tiny gravestone pulsing in my mind. Along the way, I grab granola bars and mixed nuts and protein powder, then choose what I hope is the fastest line—there’s a very proper-looking woman with her hair pinned back in a bun at the register, and she looks like she means business—before turning back to my phone.
But the register lady finishes the next customer and waves me forward. My phone tucked away, I heave my purchases onto the conveyer as fast as she can scan them, and five minutes later, I’m handing my receipt to the elderly guy at the door, who slashes a highlighter over it without so much as looking at what’s in my cart. Very effective security.
Brian’s not Brian.
The words echo in my head. My brain wars over how to feel about this—angry, uncertain, taken aback. If he’s not Brian, who is he? And also—god, he’s good. He’s tricked me all this time.
Is he pretending to be normal too?
I find myself smiling as I pull through the pickup line at school, as I buckle Evie into her car seat and head to Graham’s to get Eliza. But what I really want is to keep digging. To find more. Brian has made one screwup, leaving this evidence to be found on the internet. There must be more.
When I arrive at Graham’s, Piper’s BMW is already parked in the driveway.
“Shit,” I say. This is no ordinary pickup—this is Graham’s way of trapping me into dinner. And on a night when I want nothing more than to go home and parse through the mystery of my husband. Apparently, he’s tricked Piper too. I spare a glance backward at the dairy in freezer bags in the back of the van—hopefully it lasts. Or maybe I’ll shove it all in Graham’s fridge, pushing aside his stuff—it would serve him right.
“Shit, shit, shit,” comes an echo from the backseat.
I close my eyes, refrain from sayingshityet again, and instead swivel in my seat and enunciate, “Ship, baby. Ship. Like a big boat on the ocean.”
Evie just stares; she’s not convinced. She doesn’t sayshitagain though, so I pull her from her car seat, secure her on one hip, and we go inside to greet her aunt and uncle.
“You set me up,” I say to Graham the second I see his dark-haired head pop around the corner.
He gives me his big brother grin. “You set yourself up. It’s the big brother tax. I do you a favor, you bless my family with your delightful company.” The way he saysdelightfulmakes me think that’s not the word he really means. “Wine? Beer?”
I sigh. “If I have to put up with you? Booze.”
He laughs. “Piper, got any more of that whiskey?”
