Chapter 5 - The Woman Wearing My Face
The psychiatric clinic in the photograph was real.
That was the first thing Ethan found.
Shaw Behavioral Health sat six blocks from my house in my world and, according to the website, specialized in anxiety, postpartum depression, grief, and family crisis.
I knew the name.
I had gone there exactly four times after Noah was born.
Not because I was dangerous.
Not because I hallucinated.
Because I had not slept more than three consecutive hours in almost six months and had once sat in my car in a Target parking lot crying because I could not remember why I had driven there.
Daniel had found the clinic.
He had taken me to the first appointment.
He had held Noah in the waiting room.
I stared at the logo on Ethan’s laptop.
“She knows.”
“Of course she knows,” Ethan said. “If she has your memories.”
“She knows where the most believable dirt is buried.”
My phone rang.
Rachel.
My sister’s name on the screen made my heart jump.
I answered.
“Rachel?”
“Claire?”
Her voice cracked.
“Yes.”
“Okay. I need you to tell me something only you would know.”
I closed my eyes.
“When you were sixteen, you backed Mom’s Buick into the garage door and blamed me.”
“That is not fair. You helped.”
“I was eleven.”
“You were a very mature eleven.”
Rachel made a choking sound that was half laugh, half sob.
“Oh my God.”
“Rachel, listen to me.”
“No, you listen to me. What the hell is happening?”
“What did she tell you?”
“She called me at six this morning. She said you had some kind of psychotic break last night and that somebody might contact the family pretending to be you.”
I felt cold.
“Did she ask you to sign anything?”
Silence.
“Rachel?”
“She emailed me a statement.”
“Do not sign it.”
“I didn’t.”
“What does it say?”
“That you have a history of paranoia. That you accused Daniel of cheating without proof. That you sometimes think people are talking about you when they aren’t.”
My jaw clenched.
“Judith wrote that.”
“What?”
“The phrasing. ‘Without proof.’ That’s Judith.”
Rachel breathed out.
“There’s more.”
“Read it.”
“She wants me to confirm you had an episode after Noah was born.”
“I had postpartum anxiety.”
“I know.”
“She is turning it into psychosis.”
“I know.”
“Where is Daniel?”
“At home.”
“With her?”
“Yes.”
“What does he believe?”
Another silence.
That answer hurt more than if Rachel had said it immediately.
“He’s scared,” she said.
“Of me?”
“Of everything.”
“Did he tell you about Vanessa?”
“No.”
“Of course not.”
“Claire, this is not the time.”
“It is exactly the time. She is using every crack in my marriage because Daniel gave her the blueprint.”
Rachel lowered her voice.
“Lily texted me.”
My body tightened.
“What did she say?”
“She wants to stay here tonight.”
“Take her.”
“She says your—” Rachel stopped.
“My replacement?”
“She says the woman at the house is being too nice.”
Despite everything, a laugh escaped me.
Rachel did not laugh.
“She said it feels fake.”
Hope flared.
“Lily knows.”
“She knows something is wrong. That is different.”
“Keep her and Noah with you.”
“She won’t let Noah leave.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“She told Daniel it would look unstable if the kids suddenly went somewhere else.”
“Listen to me. Get Noah.”
“Claire, I can’t walk into your house and kidnap your son.”
“He is your nephew.”
“And legally he is with his parents.”
“One of those parents is a stranger.”
“Try explaining that to a police officer.”
That was the nightmare of it.
The truth sounded insane.
The lie sounded responsible.
The other Claire did not need to lock me in a basement or threaten anyone with a weapon.
She only needed to behave calmly.
She only needed to smile.
She only needed to turn ordinary systems against me.
“Rachel,” I said, “has she talked to Mom?”
“Yes.”
My chest sank.
Our mother, Evelyn, had never met a family conflict she could not make worse.
“What did Mom say?”
“She said she always knew something was wrong.”
I laughed once.
“Of course she did.”
“Claire.”
“Keep Lily safe. Get Noah if you can. Do not sign anything.”
“I won’t.”
“And Rachel?”
“Yeah?”
“Do not tell her where I am.”
“Where are you?”
“I honestly don’t know how to answer that.”
After we hung up, Ethan was watching me.
“She’s good,” I said.
“Who?”
“The other me.”
“At manipulating people?”
“At looking reasonable.”
I knew how family court worked even though I had never practiced it.
But this world’s Claire had.
Her laptop contained hundreds of case files, briefs, custody evaluations, motions, protective orders.
I began reading.
“What are you doing?” Ethan asked.
“Learning what she knows.”
“You already know what she knows.”
“No. I know what I know. She may come from a life where I made different choices. Maybe she became a lawyer too.”
“So?”
“So if she wants my children, she will not just play house. She will build a case.”
I searched this Claire’s files for Shaw Behavioral Health.
One result appeared.
A custody case from four years earlier.
Client: Marissa Holt.
Claim: Husband alleged she suffered delusions and posed emotional risk to children.
I opened the notes.
Marissa had lost temporary custody for eleven weeks because her husband collected therapy records, edited text messages, and persuaded relatives to describe normal anxiety as instability.
My hands froze over the keyboard.
Ethan leaned over.
“What?”
“This.”
He read.
“You think your other self knows this case?”
“This Claire does.”
“Maybe she is this Claire.”
I looked at him.
The possibility had been sitting in front of me all morning.
The woman in my home might belong to the life I had awakened in.
A family lawyer with experience destroying exactly the kind of claim I would need to make.
I checked the case outcome.
Marissa eventually regained custody.
Her husband was sanctioned.
The deciding evidence had been a recording.
I whispered, “Lily needs to record her.”
“You are asking your fourteen-year-old daughter to spy on an adult.”
“I’m asking her to protect herself.”
Ethan did not argue.
I messaged Rachel.
Tell Lily to record anything strange. Quietly. Do not confront her.
Rachel replied with a thumbs-up.
Then another text came from an unknown number.
A PDF attachment.
PETITION FOR EMERGENCY TEMPORARY DECISION-MAKING AUTHORITY.
My name.
Daniel’s name.
Our children’s names.
I opened it.
The petitioner was Daniel Morgan.
The document claimed I had disappeared after a violent domestic episode, made bizarre phone calls from untraceable numbers, and was suffering from delusions involving “an identical woman attempting to replace her.”
It was brilliant.
She had told the truth in a way that made the truth sound insane.
At the bottom was Daniel’s electronic signature.
My hands went numb.
“He signed it,” I whispered.
Ethan read over my shoulder.
“Maybe she signed for him.”
“No.”
“How can you know?”
“I know Daniel’s signature.”
That was not proof.
But marriage is made of thousands of tiny recognitions.
The angle of a D.
The way he looped the g.
He had signed it.
My husband had agreed to keep me away from my children.
My phone buzzed again.
This time it was Daniel.
For three seconds I could not answer.
Then I did.
“Daniel?”
His breathing was unsteady.
“Claire?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Please don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“Rachel says you called her. Lily says you called her. Mom says someone has been sending you messages.”
“Someone is living in our house wearing my face.”
A long silence.
Then he whispered, “That’s exactly what she said you would say.”
I closed my eyes.
“Daniel, ask me something.”
“What?”
“Anything only I would know.”
“Claire—”
“Ask me.”
He was quiet.
Finally he said, “What did you say to me the night my dad died?”
The memory hit instantly.
His father’s hospital room.
Daniel bent over, unable to stop crying.
Me holding the back of his neck.
“I said, ‘You don’t have to be the strong one tonight. I’ll do it for both of us.’”
Daniel inhaled sharply.
I continued.
“You fell asleep with your head in my lap. I stayed awake until morning because you kept waking up asking if he was really gone.”
Silence.
“Daniel?”
His voice broke.
“She knew that too.”
The hope inside me collapsed.
Of course she did.
Same memories.
Same face.
Same marriage.
Maybe even the same love.
“How do I prove I’m me?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
Behind him, I heard my own voice.
“Daniel? Who are you talking to?”
He whispered, “I have to go.”
“Don’t hang up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Daniel.”
The line went dead.
A second later a text arrived from the other Claire.
YOU KEEP TRYING TO WIN WITH MEMORIES.
Then another.
MEMORIES ARE THE ONE THING WE BOTH OWN.
I stared at the screen.
May you like
A final message appeared.
IF YOU WANT YOUR LIFE BACK, FIND SOMETHING I NEVER LIVED.
