Chapter 4 - The True Identity of an Angel
I forced the lockbox open using a crowbar from the workbench. Inside were no gold bars or stacks of cash. There was only a thick, faded manila folder, several newspaper clippings from a decade ago, and a birth certificate.
I sat on the cold basement floor, the beam of my flashlight illuminating a truth that systematically dismantled the last five years of my life.
The woman I knew as Sarah Jenkins, the sweet kindergarten teacher from Ohio with no living family, didn't exist.
According to the legal documents and a criminal indictment inside the file, her real name was Rebecca Vance. Ten years ago, she had been the primary accomplice in a massive multi-million-dollar real estate extortion ring in eastern Europe and New York. She had targeted wealthy, older investors, seduced them, or embedded herself in their families to drain their private trusts before vanishing.
I stared at the newspaper clipping. A picture of a twenty-year-old Rebecca Vance stared back at me. Her hair was dark brunette instead of blonde, her expression cold and calculating, but it was undeniably my wife.
She had fled before her trial, completely erasing her identity, purchasing a clean social security number, and fabricating a flawless background.
But the horror deepened as I read the final document in the folder—a medical report from an elite fertility clinic in Chicago dated just one year ago.
Patient: Rebecca Vance (Alias: Sarah Jenkins) Diagnosis: Severe bilateral fallopian tube occlusion resulting in permanent, irreversible infertility.
I dropped the paper, my breath completely leaving my body. Permanent infertility.
Sarah was seven months pregnant. We had seen the ultrasounds. We had felt the baby kick. I had held her belly every single night, whispering promises to our unborn son, Theodore.
How could an infertile woman be pregnant?
Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket, the loud vibration echoing off the concrete walls of the basement. It was an unknown number. I answered it, my voice trembling. "Sarah?"
A cold, mocking laugh came through the line. "Sarah is dead, Mark. You can call me Rebecca. I see you found my little collection."
"Where are you?" I roared, standing up, the flashlight beam bouncing wildly. "What did you do? Whose baby are you carrying?!"
"Oh, Mark. You always were so naive. Did you really think an elite architect just happened to stumble upon a perfect, beautiful girl who wanted nothing but a simple life?" her voice sneered, completely devoid of the sweet, gentle cadence I had fallen in love with. "The baby is yours, Mark. Biologically, at least. Your surrogate is currently resting comfortably in a private clinic I rented under a fake company name. The belly I’ve been wearing? High-grade medical silicone with a built-in heating element. You felt a pulse because I programmed it to have one."
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The psychological cruelty of her words hit me like a physical blow.
"Your mother found the clinic records in my files last week," Rebecca continued smoothly. "The old bitch tried to call you today while you were at your presentation. I had to teach her a lesson. Now, here is how this is going to play out: You are going to transfer five million dollars from your firm's trust account to the offshore routing number I just texted you. If you don't, I will walk into that clinic, sign the termination papers, and your precious Theodore will never take his first breath."
