Chapter 4: The Truth About My Wife Was Worse Than Betrayal
Chapter 4: The Truth About My Wife Was Worse Than Betrayal
The front door opened slowly.
My cousin—Claire, apparently—grabbed my arm.
“Don’t look at him.”
I stared anyway.
A man stood on the porch.
Late fifties.
Gray hair.
Dark coat.
His expression was completely calm.
Too calm for someone who had just broken into a stranger’s house.
He looked directly at Claire.
“It’s been a long time.”
Claire didn’t answer.
I stepped between them.
“Who are you?”
The man smiled.
“You really don’t remember me?”
“No.”
“That makes sense.”
He stepped inside.
Claire pulled me backward.
“Don’t let him touch you.”
The man’s smile disappeared.
“You shouldn’t have brought him into this.”
Claire shook her head.
“You brought him into it twenty-seven years ago.”
The man looked at me.
“She’s told you?”
“Enough.”
“Then you know what you are.”
I swallowed.
“I know what she claims I am.”
He laughed softly.
“You still think this is about your wife.”
I didn’t answer.
He looked toward the laptop.
Then toward the memory card on the table.
“You found the recordings.”
“Yes.”
“You saw the warehouse.”
“Yes.”
“Then you know Sarah isn’t your wife.”
My chest tightened.
“Who is my wife?”
He smiled.
“That’s the question.”
Claire stepped forward.
“Don’t listen to him.”
The man turned toward her.
“Your sister has been lying to you for years.”
Claire’s face went pale.
“You don’t get to talk about her.”
“She killed your mother.”
Silence.
I looked at Claire.
“What?”
Claire shook her head.
“He’s lying.”
The man reached inside his coat.
I immediately stepped back.
He pulled out a photograph.
Not a weapon.
He placed it on the table.
It showed two women.
One was my wife’s mother.
The other was a younger woman I didn’t recognize.
They were standing outside the same hospital from the childhood photograph.
Claire stared at it.
Her hands began trembling.
“No.”
The man said quietly,
“Your mother knew exactly what was happening.”
Claire looked at him.
“You killed her.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then who did?”
He looked at me.
“Sarah.”
My stomach twisted.
“You’re saying my wife killed her own mother?”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“I’m saying the woman you call your wife did.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Claire looked at me.
“She isn’t Sarah.”
The man nodded.
“Correct.”
“Then who is she?”
He hesitated.
“Her name was never recorded.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“She was created.”
The room became silent.
I felt something cold move through me.
“Created how?”
The man looked at me.
“Your father and Victor weren’t studying children.”
“Then what were they studying?”
“Identity.”
I didn’t understand.
“They wanted to know whether a person’s memories could be manipulated.”
Claire whispered,
“They experimented on us.”
The man nodded.
“Four children.”
“Me and Claire?”
“Four.”
“Who were the other two?”
“One was Sarah.”
“And the other?”
He looked at me.
“You.”
My throat tightened.
“I was a child.”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t I remember?”
“Because your memories were removed.”
I laughed.
It sounded strange even to me.
“That isn’t possible.”
The man walked toward the laptop.
“Watch.”
He opened another file.
A video appeared.
Four children sat in a white room.
Two girls.
Two boys.
All of them looked frightened.
One girl looked exactly like Claire.
The other looked exactly like my wife.
One boy had my face.
The other looked different.
I stared at the screen.
“That’s me.”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Six.”
I watched myself on the screen.
A man in a white coat entered.
He placed four cards on the table.
Each card had a number.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
“Tomorrow, only three of you will remember this room.”
I paused the video.
“Why?”
The man answered,
“Because one memory was going to be transferred.”
“To whom?”
He looked at Claire.
“Sarah.”
I stared at her.
Claire looked devastated.
“They transferred my sister’s memories into her.”
I shook my head.
“Into who?”
Claire pointed at the screen.
“The girl beside me.”
My heart stopped.
“My wife.”
The man nodded.
“She wasn’t born with those memories.”
“Then who was she?”
“A replacement.”
I couldn’t speak.
Claire wiped her eyes.
“Sarah died during the procedure.”
The room seemed to disappear around me.
“And my wife?”
“She survived.”
“Why does she think she’s Sarah?”
“Because she was conditioned to believe it.”
I stepped away.
Everything I thought I knew about my marriage suddenly felt like a carefully constructed illusion.
My wife’s childhood stories.
Her mother’s photographs.
Her memories.
Her fear of hospitals.
All of it.
The man looked at me.
“Your wife isn’t Sarah.”
“Then why did she marry me?”
He smiled.
“Because you were part of the same experiment.”
I felt sick.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you weren’t ready.”
I laughed.
“Ready?”
“You’ve spent your entire life believing you were an ordinary man.”
“Was I?”
“No.”
Claire suddenly grabbed my hand.
“Don’t listen to him.”
The man ignored her.
“Your father discovered something after the experiment.”
“What?”
“That the memories weren’t disappearing.”
I frowned.
“What happened to them?”
“They were transferring.”
“To whom?”
“Other subjects.”
My heart started pounding.
“Then whose memories do I have?”
The man looked at me.
“Your brother’s.”
I froze.
“I don’t have a brother.”
“You did.”
“The other boy.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to him?”
The man looked away.
“He died.”
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
I stared at him.
Three years ago.
The same year my father supposedly died.
The same year my wife became distant.
The same year Marcus started investigating us.
I suddenly understood.
“His body…”
The man nodded.
“Was used to fake your father’s death.”
My head spun.
“Why?”
“Because your father needed everyone to believe the experiment had ended.”
Claire stepped closer.
“And it hadn’t.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“It continued.”
“Where?”
The man pointed toward the basement.
I stared at him.
“Our basement?”
“Yes.”
I remembered the locked storage room.
The one my wife had never allowed me to enter.
The one she always said contained old boxes from her parents.
My stomach dropped.
“What is down there?”
The man smiled.
“Your original identity.”
I looked at Claire.
She was crying now.
“Don’t go down there.”
“Why?”
“Because once you see it, you can’t go back.”
I looked toward the basement door.
For years, I had believed my wife was the person hiding secrets.
Now I realized something much worse.
My entire life might have been the secret.
I opened the basement door.
The stairs disappeared into darkness.
Claire grabbed my shoulder.
“Please.”
I looked at her.
“What are you afraid I’ll find?”
She whispered,
“The truth about which one of us survived.”
I stepped down.
One stair.
Then another.
At the bottom, I found a metal door.
It was already unlocked.
Inside was a small room filled with filing cabinets.
Photographs covered the walls.
Four children.
Four names.
Four numbers.
I walked toward the largest photograph.
My hands began shaking.
It showed the four of us standing together.
Underneath were the names.
SUBJECT 01 — CLAIRE
SUBJECT 02 — SARAH
SUBJECT 03 — MICHAEL
SUBJECT 04 — UNKNOWN
I stared at the fourth name.
Unknown.
Then I looked at the photograph again.
There were only three children.
Claire.
Sarah.
Michael.
I turned around.
The man was standing behind me.
“Where is Subject Four?”
He smiled.
“You’re looking at him.”
My blood ran cold.
“But that’s me.”
“No.”
He pointed at the photograph.
“That’s Michael.”
I looked at the boy with my face.
Then at myself.
“If that’s Michael…”
I couldn’t finish.
The man did.
“You were Subject Four.”
I stepped backward.
“Then who am I?”
Nobody answered.
Until Claire spoke.
Her voice was barely audible.
“You’re the one they made after Michael died.”
I stared at her.
The man closed the door behind us.
And suddenly I understood why my wife had spent years lying about her childhood.
Because if what they were telling me was true, then I wasn’t the man who had married her.
I was the replacement too.
And somewhere in the house above us was a woman who had spent years pretending to be my wife.
Maybe she wasn’t the only person pretending.
Maybe neither of us knew who we really were.
