Chapter 3: My Dead Brother Had Been Living Under Another Name
Chapter 3: My Dead Brother Had Been Living Under Another Name
I stared at my wife.
Then at the contract.
Then back at her.
“My brother is dead.”
My voice sounded strangely calm.
She shook her head.
“No.”
“He died twelve years ago.”
“No.”
“I went to his funeral.”
“I know.”
“I saw the coffin.”
“I know.”
“I watched them bury him.”
My wife covered her mouth.
“I know.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
She looked at the floor.
“Your brother wasn’t inside that coffin.”
I felt the room tilt.
For twelve years, I had carried the memory of that funeral.
The black suit.
The rain.
My mother’s screaming.
My father’s silence.
The closed coffin.
The police officer who told us the body had been badly burned in the accident.
I had never questioned it.
Why would I?
He was my older brother.
His name was Ethan.
And according to everyone I trusted, he had died on a highway outside Las Vegas.
Yet the contract in my hands had been signed by someone using his name.
My wife whispered, “His real name isn’t Ethan Walker.”
I looked at her.
“Then what is it?”
She hesitated.
“Ethan Carter.”
The room became completely silent.
I laughed once.
It wasn’t because anything was funny.
It was because my brain couldn’t process what I was hearing.
“Ethan Carter is my brother’s name.”
“I know.”
“So who is Ethan Walker?”
She looked at me.
“Your brother.”
I dropped the contract onto the bed.
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It will.”
“When?”
“When you understand what happened in Nevada.”
I stepped toward her.
“You’re going to tell me everything.”
She shook her head.
“I can’t.”
“You’ve already told me my dead brother is alive.”
“He doesn’t want you to know.”
“I don’t care what he wants.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
She looked directly into my eyes.
“Because he isn’t the same man you remember.”
That sentence stopped me.
“What happened to him?”
She sat down on the edge of the bed.
“After the accident, your brother survived.”
I stared at her.
“He was badly injured. His face was burned. He had multiple fractures. The doctors weren’t sure he would live.”
“How did my family not know?”
“Because someone made sure you wouldn’t.”
“Who?”
“Your brother.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“He believed your family was in danger.”
“From whom?”
She looked at the contract.
“From the people who owned the company on that document.”
I picked it up.
“Ethan Holdings.”
She nodded.
“It wasn’t just a company. It was a shell used to move money.”
“How much?”
She swallowed.
“More than forty million dollars.”
I stared at her.
“And my brother was involved?”
“Initially.”
My stomach tightened.
“He helped create the accounts.”
“Why?”
“Because he was trying to expose someone.”
“Who?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
I didn’t believe her.
“You’ve been meeting him.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Three years.”
The answer hit me harder than anything else.
Three years.
My wife had been secretly communicating with my supposedly dead brother for three years.
“Does he know about me?”
“He knows everything about you.”
“And the baby?”
She looked away.
“Yes.”
“Is the baby mine?”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
I didn’t move.
She looked back at me.
“The baby is yours.”
I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or more confused.
“Then why did you tell him I couldn’t get you pregnant?”
“Because that was part of the plan.”
“What plan?”
“To make you believe the pregnancy was impossible.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because we needed you to sign the transfer documents.”
I felt my jaw tighten.
“So the baby was bait?”
“No.”
“Then what was it?”
“A deadline.”
I said nothing.
She continued.
“Your brother believed that once you had a child, the people looking for him would eventually realize you were connected to him.”
“Why would they care about me?”
“Because you inherited something.”
“What?”
She hesitated.
“Not money.”
I waited.
“Then what?”
“Evidence.”
My eyes narrowed.
“What evidence?”
“The original records from Nevada.”
I suddenly remembered the name.
Nevada.
The place where my brother supposedly died.
The place where I had gone with my parents after the accident.
The place where my wife had apparently been keeping secrets for years.
“What happened there?”
She took a shaky breath.
“Your brother discovered that someone inside your father’s company had been stealing money.”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“Was he involved?”
“No.”
She looked almost offended by the question.
“Your father tried to stop them.”
“Then why did my brother disappear?”
“Because he found out who was behind it.”
“Who?”
She didn’t answer.
I grabbed the contract.
“Who?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Your father.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Not because he was guilty.”
She immediately shook her head.
“Because someone had forged documents to make it look like he was.”
I stared at her.
“So my brother discovered the fraud.”
“Yes.”
“And then someone caused the accident.”
“Yes.”
“To kill him?”
“Yes.”
“But he survived.”
“Yes.”
“And then he disappeared.”
She nodded.
“Your brother realized the people responsible had access to police records, hospital records, financial records—everything.”
“So he faked his own death.”
“He had no choice.”
“And you knew.”
“Yes.”
“For three years.”
“Yes.”
I turned away.
I didn’t know what hurt more.
The lies.
The pregnancy.
The contract.
Or the fact that everyone seemed to know the truth about my family except me.
Then I noticed something.
The signature on the contract.
I looked closer.
It wasn’t actually my brother’s handwriting.
It looked like mine.
I grabbed another document from the lockbox.
Then another.
I compared the signatures.
My wife watched silently.
“These signatures…”
She nodded.
“They’re yours.”
“But I never signed them.”
“I know.”
“Then how?”
She whispered:
“Your brother spent years studying your handwriting.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
“So he could sign documents as you.”
My heart sank.
“How many?”
She didn’t answer.
“How many documents did he sign using my name?”
“Seven.”
I closed my eyes.
“And what did those documents do?”
“Move ownership.”
“Of what?”
She looked at me.
“The company.”
I stared at her.
“What company?”
“Your father’s company.”
My phone suddenly vibrated.
A message appeared from an unknown number.
Stop asking questions.
Then another.
Your wife has already told you too much.
My wife saw the screen.
Her face turned white.
A third message appeared.
If you want to meet your brother, come to the old Nevada highway tomorrow at midnight.
Then a photograph arrived.
I opened it.
It showed a man standing beside a burned-out car.
The image was old.
But the man was unmistakable.
It was Ethan.
My supposedly dead brother.
And beneath the photograph was one final sentence:
He isn’t the person you think he is.
I looked at my wife.
“Who sent this?”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she whispered something that made my blood run cold.
“Your brother.”
I looked at the photograph again.
And suddenly I noticed something I hadn’t seen before.
Ethan wasn’t standing alone.
Someone was beside him.
Someone whose face had been deliberately scratched out.
I zoomed in.
My breathing stopped.
Because I recognized the jacket.
It belonged to my father.
And the date on the photograph was three years after the funeral.
