The James in my house suddenly preferred his coffee with two sugars instead of one. He started using a different aftershave. Said he wanted to try something new. His laugh had a different timing, a beat too fast. When I played our song, Ella Fitzgerald someone to watch over me. He didn’t automatically pull me close like he used to.
He just smiled and kept reading his medical journal. In bed, there were differences, too, subtle ones. His touch was slightly firmer, his rhythm different. The first time I convinced myself he was just tired, stressed about a difficult case, but it kept happening. And there was something else. Something I couldn’t quite identify until the fourth night when I pressed my ear to his chest and listened. No murmur.
James had patent for Raymond Oil. A small hole in his heart from birth. Harmless, but I could always hear the murmur when I listened. A soft whooing sound that was as familiar to me as his voice. I’d fallen asleep to that sound for 6 years. This man’s heart was completely silent. I pulled away suddenly cold. forced myself to act normal. “You okay?” he asked.
“Just tired.” I kissed his shoulder, moved to my side of the bed, and stared at the ceiling until dawn. Michael called everyday with updates. The James in Tokyo was still there, still with the woman. They went to business meetings together. Had dinner at Michelin starred restaurants.
She introduced him as her associate, Dr. Morrison. Though Michael couldn’t figure out what kind of business a neurosurgeon would have in Tokyo that involved expensive dinners and luxury hotels. On day nine, I made a decision. I called in sick to the hospital, something I almost never did, and went to James’ office at Mass General.
His secretary was surprised to see me. Dr. Chen, Dr. Morrison didn’t mention you were coming by. Just wanted to drop off his lunch. I lied. Holding up a bag from his favorite deli. Is he in surgery? Oh no, he’s in his office. Been there all morning reviewing scans. You can go right in. My heart hammered as I walked down the familiar hallway, knocked on his office door. Come in.
I opened the door. James looked up from his computer, smiled. Sarah, what a nice surprise. He stood came around the desk to kiss me. I let him even as my skin crawled. Brought you lunch. I set the bag on his desk. Glanced at his computer screen. patient scans, notes in his handwriting, or what looked like his handwriting. You’re the best.
He opened the bag, pulled out the sandwich, took a bite. How’s your day? Good. Busy. I moved closer to his desk, saw the framed photo of us from our wedding, saw his diplomas on the wall, Harvard Medical School, John’s Hopkins for residency. Everything exactly as it should be. James, can I ask you something? Of course.
Do you have any siblings? Anyone you’ve never told me about? His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker. Sarah, you know I’m an only child. Where’s this coming from? Just curious. You never talk about wanting siblings. Never really thought about it. He took another bite of his sandwich. Is something bothering you? No, just been thinking about family lately.
I kissed his cheek. I’ll let you get back to work. I left his office, but instead of leaving the building, I went to medical records, called in a favor with an old colleague. “I need you to pull up Dr. James Morrison’s employment records, specifically his logged hours for the past 2 weeks,” she typed, frowned at her screen. “That’s weird.
What? He’s been here every day. Full shifts.” Even pulled a double on Thursday. But she scrolled down. There’s a note here about him requesting time off next week for a medical conference in Seattle. Seattle, not Tokyo. But still, a trip I knew nothing about. Can you print this for me? That night, I waited until James fell asleep, then went through his things, his briefcase, his laptop, his phone. The phone was the key.
I knew his passcode, his birthday, plus mine. But when I tried it, the phone wouldn’t unlock. He’d changed it. In 6 years, he’d never changed his passcode. He’d never had a reason to. We trusted each other. Or I thought we did. I tried other combinations. Our anniversary, Atlas’s adoption date, my birthday. Nothing worked.
I was about to give up when I remembered something. The old iPhone he kept in his nightstand drawer. The one he’d replaced 6 months ago, but hadn’t gotten rid of yet because it had photos he wanted to transfer. I found it, plugged it in. It had just enough charge. Open to his old passcode without issue.
And there in his email, I found everything. An email thread with someone named Jonathan. The most recent message was from 3 weeks ago, the day before Michael saw James in Tokyo. Remember, no shellfish. She’ll notice if you have an allergic reaction. Coffee. Two sugars. Now you need to switch. I’ve been gradually changing it over the past month. She tracks everything.
The dog might be a problem. Avoid him when possible. Atlas knows. Dogs always know. I scrolled up, hands shaking. Phase one complete. I’ve been accepted to the Seattle Medical Conference. That gives us the window we need. You’ll have 3 weeks. That should be enough time to access her accounts, transfer the funds, and get the formula.
Her mother’s Alzheimer’s research is worth millions. Every pharmaceutical company wants it. We copy it, sell it, disappear before anyone knows what happened. Further up, I found you through the DNA site. Couldn’t believe it when your profile matched mine 100%. We’re identical twins, Jonathan. Separated at birth, different adoptive families.
This is fate. We can help each other. I need money. You need a new life. She’s a cardiac surgeon. Her family has money. Between her inheritance and her mother’s research, we’re talking tens of millions. You play me, I’ll handle the business in Tokyo. She’ll never know. My vision blurred. I kept reading, months of planning, photos of me, my routines, my schedule, notes on my mother’s Alzheimer’s research, which I had access to as her medical proxy, bank account numbers, investment portfolios, everything. James had a twin. a twin
he’d found through a DNA ancestry site. And they’d planned this together. The man sleeping in my bed wasn’t my husband. He was Jonathan, a stranger who’d studied my life like it was a medical textbook, learned every detail, every habit, every preference. And he’d been living in my house, sleeping beside me for almost 2 weeks while the real James was doing god knows what in Tokyo and Seattle.
